


The Sweet Intoxication of the Fall

by vivilove



Series: Historical AUs [18]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Class Differences, Edwardian Period, F/M, Forbidden Love, Joffrey is his usual dickish self, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Jon has salty thoughts and a romantic af heart, Secret Relationship, Servants, Sexual Content, some Downton vibes, very minor scene of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25992382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/pseuds/vivilove
Summary: When Jon is hired on as the new undergardener at Winterfell, Old Willem’s rules are simple:“The godswood takes care of itself. The rest of the estate does not.If a task can be done by sundown, I expect it to be done by sundown. If not, go eat your supper and finish it the next day.Don’t neglect the lemon trees in the Glass Garden. They need constant care to thrive up here.Leave Lady Catelyn’s roses that grow there be. She prefers to tend them herself.Leave Lady Catelyn’s daughters be as well.”Keeping to four out of five isn’t so bad, he reckons.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Historical AUs [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747234
Comments: 428
Kudos: 504





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amymel86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/gifts), [Only_Jonsa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_Jonsa/gifts).



> Here's another Historical AU nobody asked for but it's gifted to two lovelies who've been reading this as I've been writing it. Much thanks to Amy for the picset!! 
> 
> It is set during the Edwardian Era which is considered to run from 1901 until the outbreak of WWI even though Edward died in 1910. This story takes place from summer to autumn of 1912. The title is taken from lyrics in Desert Rose by Sting. The Fall isn't referring to the autumn season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief background notes-Jon and Sansa are NOT related in this and are both 20. There's definitely Downton Abbey vibes but this is NOT a Downton AU.

* * *

* * *

When Jon is hired on as the new undergardener at Winterfell, Old Willem’s rules are simple:

_“The godswood takes care of itself. The rest of the estate does not._

_If a task can be done by sundown, I expect it to be done by sundown. If not, go eat your supper and finish it the next day._

_Don’t neglect the lemon trees in the Glass Garden. They need constant care to thrive up here._

_Leave Lady Catelyn’s roses that grow there be. She prefers to tend them herself._

_Leave Lady Catelyn’s daughters be as well.”_

Keeping to four out of five isn’t so bad, he reckons.

* * *

Six weeks he’s been at Winterfell when she blows into his life.

To be accurate, it’s her ridiculously large hat that does it.

The sun is shining but the wind is blowing something fierce this day as Jon takes his noonday meal. The liveried household servants may eat every meal indoors under the sharp eyes of Cassel, the butler, and Mrs. Mordane, the housekeeper, but the groundskeepers and stable hands have the choice when it’s fair out and the outdoors suits Jon better.

He’s seated on a convenient stump by the pond, enjoying watching the turtles and ducks when he spies a peculiar sight, a wide-brimmed cream-colored lady’s hat banded with violet silk rolling across the lawn like a wagon wheel and headed his direction.

“Oh! Oh! Will you catch that for me, please?!”

Jon’s trying to locate the owner of that voice just when the hat’s passing within reach. He leaps to his feet a beat too late though he still nearly snags it. Unfortunately, he’s not quite quick enough for the wind and its captive.

Wind is no match for the water though and the hat’s journey is brought to a halt when it plops into the pond to be greeted by a chorus of quacks. Jon doesn’t know why it makes him chuckle so heartily, that fancy hat among the ducks and lily pads, but it does.

“Some help you are,” a woman huffs behind him but he detects a hint of amusement in her tone.

He’s still grinning when he turns and finds himself looking at the prettiest girl he thinks he’s ever seen.

His mouth is hanging open anyway so he’s reaching for a witty retort (as soon as he can think of one) when he gives her another good look and remembers himself. This isn’t one of the maids or tenants’ girls. This is a young lady, one of Lady Stark’s acquaintances perhaps.

No, that’s not right.

That lush auburn hair is threatening to come loose from its bun from her chase and the particular blue of her eyes…she could easily be Lady Stark’s daughter, the elder one he has not yet met. Or rather, not laid eyes on yet anyway.

To be honest, he wasn’t _introduced_ to Lady Stark’s younger daughter. He’d met his employer, the polite but reserved widow of the late earl, but she’d not bothered introducing Willem’s new helper to her children. Why would she?

Lady Arya had introduced herself though, proudly announcing she doesn’t give a fig for what’s proper as she’d attempted to help Jon chop up a fallen tree into kindling. Jon does care somewhat for what’s proper though so he’d told her she’d dull his ax and to go see what Gendry was doing in the stables. He’d already been tipped off that was where she liked offering her aid the most.

Anyway, this must be the other Stark girl. Hadn’t he overheard Nan the cook saying yesterday that Lady Sansa would be returning from London soon where she’d been staying with her aunt?

He yanks off his cap and crushes it against his chest as his other hand swiftly works to pull his suspenders back up. He’d taken off his coat earlier and his sleeves are rolled up but no one expects the outdoor laborers to look all shined up like the butler and his boys. He does wish he could give his hair a lick but that would be very obvious. Too late, he realizes the first couple of buttons of his shirt are undone. He’d been at his ease here but he’s no longer alone and there are rules even for undergardeners.

Despite her flushed cheeks and hair that’s coming loose, he would guess this lady cares very much about what’s proper.

“My lady,” he says, bowing his head.

“Well…” Only the one word passes between inviting pink lips as she’s looking at him. She seems to grow flustered and he’d swear she’s on the verge of stamping her foot when she asks, “Why’d you let it get past you then?!”

Is she serious? Does she believe he purposely let her hat go into the pond?

He scowls (which is not remotely deferential or apologetic) before he sits back down on his stump and starts unlacing his boots.

“What are you doing?” she gasps.

“I should think it’s a bit obvious. I’m fetching your hat, my lady.”

“But it’s in the pond already.”

“Is that what that body of water there is called?”

“You’re…you…oof!” The cat has her tongue but her blue eyes spark with fire. Maybe there’s something to be said for a bit of cheek if it gets that reaction.

Boots removed, he starts rolling up his trousers and removing his socks.

Her brow is furrowed as she wrings her hands and watches him. “There might be jagged rocks under the water.”

“I’ll bet you the rest of my meal that it’s mud on the bottom.” _And duck shit._

“You really don’t have to.”

“Would you rather it stay there?”

She bites her lip at that. She wants her hat back.

He wades into the pond, his toes sinking into the cool, squishy mud as the sunlight sparkles on the water. He plucks the damp hat from the lily pad it had come to a rest upon and wades back, wincing slightly when he steps on a stone.

“I told you there might be rocks.”

“The stone is smooth, not jagged.”

“You might still be injured.”

“I’m fine. I’ve trod about barefoot plenty as a boy.” He climbs back onto the shore, holding out the hat. “I hope its salvageable, my lady.”

“It’ll clean up alright. Thank you…”

“Jon.”

“Thank you, Jon.” Her voice is soft now and her eyes seem fixed on him. That's alright. His eyes are fixed on her. 

There’s a shout from the hill above. Two gentlemen and a lady have apparently come in search of her. Where were the gentlemen when her hat was sailing away on the breeze? he wonders.

“Haven’t you fetched the stupid thing yet?” one of the gentlemen asks irritably, the taller one.

“I have it now!” she replies, holding up the dripping hat before turning back to Jon.

With his trousers still rolled up to his knees and mud drying on his feet, Jon doesn’t wish to be a spectacle of amusement for the toffs. Perhaps she senses as much for she moves between him and the party on the hill.

“I’ll need to rejoin my guests, I’m afraid. You’re under Willem, I suppose.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I’m Sansa.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Sansa.”

“It was nice to meet you as well, Jon, though I worry the pleasure is entirely mine.” Oh, she’s quite mistaken there. “I am sorry to interrupt your meal and cause you any trouble.”

“Don’t apologize. It wasn’t any trouble. We’ll place the blame squarely where it belongs…on the breeze.”

She grins and he cannot help grinning back. She’s so lovely.

“Sansa! Are you going to linger by the pond all day or are we going to ride as agreed?” the man shouts next, sounding inexplicably vexed considering he’s not even bothered to come any closer and see what’s what.

He sees the flicker of annoyance which crosses her features before she gives Jon one last farewell and strides up the hill towards them, making her apologies and suggesting they all go indoors to dress for their ride.

Jon watches her go with a pang he should not feel before a quacking brings him to his senses again. “Quite right. There’s a job to get finished before sundown,” he tells his feathered friends. His time for eating is done so he picks up his napkin and cup to return to Nan before heading back to work.

* * *

That evening, Jon learns that the gentleman so eager to go riding is the Honorable Joffrey Baratheon, son of the Baron of Storm’s End, who are her ladyship’s guests along with his mother the baroness and Joffrey’s younger brother and sister.

“A puffed up little shit since he was a mere squeaker,” Willem tells Jon by the fire where they take their ease in their quarters near the Glass Garden. “Not a touch on the Starks' for quality but still high society and rich, mightily rich. Steer clear of ‘im if you can, boy.”

The baron had been a friend from boyhood of Lord Stark’s. The gossip below stairs is that there’d been talk of a match between Lady Sansa and the baron’s heir when they were both still in swaddling clothes.

“Followed her home from London, they did. Maybe we’ll see a marriage ‘fore long.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Why’s it terrible?”

“You just named him a shit. Why would you want Lady Sansa to marry him?”

Willem shrugs. “Since when does what I want matter in the business? The posh all marry each other for their titles and estates and to keep that money between themselves, don’t they? They ain’t got to tolerate each other forever if she don’t like ‘em. Once she gives him an heir, maybe he’ll reside in the country and she’ll stay in town or perhaps the reverse. I’m sure Lady Sansa can handle the likes of that pup ‘til then.”

Can she though? And what sort of life is that?

Yes, he’s aware of the way of the world but her parents had been happy from everything he’s heard. He hates to think of Lady Sansa unhappily wed. A girl like that deserves better than being married for her name and dowry.

* * *

On the fourth night of the Baratheons’ visit, two of Cassel’s footmen have fallen ill (ill to the point that they cannot serve that is as no one wants dripping noses hovering over the cutlery or to be coughed at all through dinner.) 

So, Jon finds himself being called up to the main house just as he’s finishing his day’s work. Old Roderick looks him up and down as Jon stands before him feeling very conscious and unsure of why he’s here.

“He’ll fit in the livery nicely, don’t you think, Jory?”

“Without a doubt, Uncle.”

"Can you manage serving at table, Jon?"

"Uh..." The old man starts scowling. He can serve at table and not disgrace himself too terribly...he hopes. "Yes, Mr. Cassel."

"Very good. You'll need to scrub under those fingernails," Cassel warns him next, pointing at his hands. Jon's not very fond of that much scrubbing and he'll be wearing gloves for that matter but he bites his tongue in the face of the two Cassels and their superior knowledge in these matters. 

Jory was Lord Stark’s valet and currently has the unenviable position of trying to take care of the younger sons and make them into gentlemen by ensuring they dress in accordance with their station. _‘I’m more a nursemaid than a valet at this point,’_ Jory had said with a laugh after Jon had met him.

Lord Robb Stark, the new Earl of Winterfell, has been taking a leisurely tour of the continent the past six months. Jon’s also heard he’s married in haste whilst he was there. The maids all sighed and called it a love match but Mrs. Mordane has been heard to sniff and call it an ill-advised one.

All this is neither here nor there to Jon but, as a result of Jory’s approval, Jon finds himself dressed in a footman’s uniform and hustled off to the drawing room for instructions. The bloody collar of this thing is already choking him and he’s expected to serve drinks? He’d rather chop down another tree or wade into the pond again.

“You look like you’d rather be fetching another hat from the pond.”

He spins to find he’s no longer alone in the drawing room where the family and guests will meet for drinks before dinner. Lady Sansa has come in early wearing a gown of dark blue silk and black feathers artfully arranged in her glowing red hair. She's stunning, without a doubt.

“I’m afraid you’re right, my lady. I missed my own dinner and I’m bound to spill something.”

“I highly doubt you’ll spill anything and, even if you do, Cassel’s staff are sharp on their toes. I am sorry you’ve not eaten.” She glances around conspiratorially. “Would you like a lemon cake to tide you over?”

Willem had said the lemon trees in the Glass Gardens were especially beloved by Lady Sansa for they yielded the fruit which made her favorite treat. Jon thinks they are very fine little trees indeed.

“You won’t tell?” he asks, knowing it’s not at all proper for him to say yes but longing to.

She grins and holds a finger up to her lips before slipping off. She’s back in a trice with the baked delight. “I told Cook I’d not eaten a morsel since breakfast which is true.”

“I can split it with you,” Jon says as he starts to dive in.

“Oh no. I’ll eat my dinner with everyone. This is for you,” she says, giving his hand the gentlest of nudges with her own. They're both wearing gloves and he should not be so _aware_ of the sensation but he is. 

It’s tart and sweet and not the sort of thing Jon’s accustomed to but he likes it a good deal. He licks the crumbs off his fingers, only mildly self-conscious at this point, as Lady Sansa watches him.

"You look well in the uniform...quite well in it," she murmurs as he’s giving his hands a wipe and tugging his gloves back on. Her cheeks are flushing and those blue eyes are a little darker than before, he'd swear. 

Before he can reply, the door to the drawing room opens again and Lady Stark is escorting the baron and baroness in for drinks.

“Oh, it’s Jon, isn’t it?” she remarks when she spots him. No matter their rank in the household, Lady Stark does make a point of knowing everyone.

“Yes, my lady. Alyn and Tom are under the weather.”

“That’s too bad about Alyn and Tom but it's jolly good of you to step in,” she says politely before turning her attention back to her guests. 

Jon wonders if her ladyship realizes that stepping in wasn't an act of benevolence on his part but an order to be followed. _Leave it,_ he tells himself. _They're not like you and you'll never be one of them._

"Would you care for an aperitif, Cersei? Oh but of course, you would," Lady Stark says to the beautiful baroness with the chilliest green eyes Jon's ever seen. “Sansa, my dear?"

"Yes, Mama?"

"Go and see if your sister is quite ready whilst I speak with the Baratheons.”

Sansa leaves the room and indeed they speak. They speak as if Jon isn’t there at all but he knows this is the way of their set. Their servants are always there when needed but invisible a majority of the time.

Jon would blend into the wainscoting if he could but Lord Baratheon likes having his drink refilled quite often. He doesn’t spill a single drop even as they speak about Sansa’s dowry and Joffrey’s inclination for her.

His hands barely tremble as he pours.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **11/11/20** Want to give a shout out to dear Norrlands-Nonsense for making an incredible manip for this story which you can see [HERE](https://norrlands-nonsense.tumblr.com/post/631971251925172224/got-inspired-by-the-veeery-charming-the-sweet) or on this site under her works. Thank you, my dear!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the next chapter of this which I hope you’ll enjoy ❤️.
> 
> Heads up-Brief scene of Joffrey getting out of hand with Sansa but this will be the last we truly see of him going forward.

Jon is an undergardener. Maybe he has some aspirations of being head gardener for an estate such as this when he is older. 

If he is truly lucky and careful with his pounds, he may someday manage to secure a little cottage for himself with its own little garden to tend. 

And in his most fanciful daydreams, the kind that usually appear between wakefulness and sleep, he thinks of being fortunate enough to find a good sort of girl willing to marry him. He will grow her lovely flowers and she will sing to him by their fire at night. They may find contentment or even love together. If God is kind, He will bless them with a bonny daughter or son to cherish.

That is the extent of his hopes. 

He harbors no hopes with regards to being a footman who achieves the rank of butler in a great house such as this someday.

But, while he prefers the outdoors and being a gardener, he is not entirely unfamiliar with this dance. 

His mother had taught him much having been in service herself until her death last year. He’d do best not to dwell on that. No one wants to be waited on by a weeping footman. Certainly not the lady he’s stationed behind. 

They’re barely through their soup when Jon thinks he might like to dump Lady Baratheon’s on her head. Her barbs are thinly disguised as wit and she seems to have her claws out for Lady Sansa most of all. If she wants the girl for a daughter-in-law, why does she despise her so? 

Perhaps it’s because she’s so unhappily wed and hopes to share that distinction with another woman. 

Her décolletage walks a fine line between fashionable and scandalous…not that her husband notices. 

Lord Baratheon’s a fair way towards pissed by the time the salad course arrives. And while he appears completely unmoved by his wife’s tantalizing display of bosom, Jon’s heard he’s already made a conquest of one of the laundresses since his arrival. Bessie had said it was well worth ten minutes of hard labor and heavy lifting to earn a trinket that costs half a year’s wages. Cook had warned her she’d best not turn up pregnant or she’d be lacking the other half of her year's wages. 

_“Would they do that?”_ Jon had quietly asked Gendry when he’d heard the tale. _“Would Lady Stark dismiss a girl simply if she got…you know.”_

_“Don’t know. It’s what happens most places, ain’t it? Only girl I recall it happening to here was Palla though."_

_"She's still here."_

_"Aye. Lew wound up marrying her after church one Sunday before she couldn’t tie her apron on no more. Lady Stark sent them a dozen chickens as a bride's gift.”_

He’s thinking of his mother again now…and getting angry. He cannot indulge in his emotions here. If there’s a hedge that needs trimming, he can work out his resentments with the pruning shears. At table, there’s no place for it. 

Gratefully, he finds himself thoroughly distracted when he glances Lady Sansa’s way. She’s nibbling on an olive and her eyes are resting on him. She swiftly looks away when she realizes he’s aware of it. Caught. Is he imagining that slight blush? 

He lets his eyes rest on her, feeling his frustrations fading or transforming into another variety at least. She is so lovely. There’s no denying it. And the dainty way she eats, the flashes of pink tongue he sees sets his mind on a more agreeable path again though an equally dangerous one. Some servants flirt with the toffs but that's never been Jon. 

Her eyes flit back to him. The tiniest smirk appears. She’s caught him watching this time but, unlike her, he refuses to glance away immediately. Is staring really flirting? He decides that it isn't. 

Their eyes remain on each other, the blue observing the grey and vice versa. How long does it last? He’s not certain but he knows his heart is pounding when her mother draws her back into the table’s conversation.

The footman at his left clears his throat as Lady Baratheon holds up her glass for more wine. He gets the impression she's been waiting for a while. When he leans forward, she rakes him over with her eyes. Those eyes are harsh but they like what they see. She reminds him of a hungry lioness he saw once in London at the zoological park. He shifts uncomfortably under that look as he murmurs an apology. 

Cassel is signaling him to prepare to serve the next course. Feeling chastened but thankful for the excuse to be busy, Jon wishes for the outdoors where the breeze might cool his brow.

* * *

Dinner ends and the hostesses and their guests return to the drawing room where Cassel says Jon will not be needed. He’s set to carrying dishes below stairs. 

His lemon cake is long gone and his stomach lets him know it. It lets more than Jon know it and Nan’s lips twitch as she passes him over a plate. “Eat up, lad. No man should work morning, noon and night on an empty belly and it’s not as if Willem will let you lie in tomorrow, is it?”

No, he won’t.

He listens to the old woman prattle away as he enjoys the leftovers from dinner. “Them ladies in their fancy evening wear and corsets eat like little birds,” Nan tells him. 

Once he’s done and the cook has no more use for him, he’s sent on this way, admonished to go to bed like a little boy being sent off by his gran. He supposes a woman Nan's age is probably somebody’s gran, maybe several somebodies. It’s funny how when you’re in service, the house and its residents, above stairs and below, become your family. He’s known of nursery maids who’ve spent more time with their employer’s children than their own.

He does not expect to see Lady Sansa again as he’s heading to his quarters for the night…but then he does. Though in truth, he doesn’t so much _see_ her initially as he _hears_ her.

He’d been debating with himself over the uniform and when and how to return it. He’ll have his regular work to get to come sunrise and no time to be traipsing up to the house to drop off soiled livery. 

His feet are turned towards Cassel’s study when there’s a scuffling coming from a nearby room, the library he believes. 

His hair stands on end when he recognizes her voice. 

“No, please...this isn’t proper, Joffrey. I only meant to-”

“Tease me? Father warned me all girls are flirts at heart.”

“I am not being a tease nor a flirt.”

He laughs in response, a low, smug and assured sounding laugh that Jon doesn’t like one bit. “Come on, Sansa. There’s no need to play games...except the bedroom sort.” 

“Stop it, Joffrey,” she says with more force but also an underlying hint of unease. 

The household servants are supposed to be seen but not seen, there but not there. They’re expected to keep out of the way and not meddle in their employer’s affairs. This is Lady Sansa's business. 

But Jon figures he’s just an undergardener and he doesn’t have to follow their rules. 

His ears pick up more sounds of scuffling and he’s striding into the library as if he owns it. He sees red at the sight of Joffrey’s black coat pressed against her blue silk with his hands roughly gripping her arms. Her head is turned away and she’s issuing more protests as his mouth is on her cheek and jaw. His teeth are bared as if he means to bite her. Jon may very well bite him before the night is done. 

“Unhand the lady at once, sir.” He does not shout. He does not wish to bring attention to the scene for her sake. His voice is steady and firm when he adds, “Unhand her or I will break your hand.” The threat is true but he can't believe he said it aloud. 

The Honorable Joffrey Baratheon’s blond head turns quickly, a flash of fear showing he knows he’s been caught behaving in a manner that is not remotely acceptable. But the fear evaporates when he sees who has confronted him. 

“Piss off. Go wipe down some glasses, you dolt. My lady and I were merely having a discussion, weren’t we, Sansa?”

He’s no longer holding her against him, no longer has his mouth near her face but one hand is still holding her arm, likely leaving a mark under the long gloves that cover her arms well past her elbows. 

Sansa’s eyes drop to the floor. She’s afraid of answering, he suspects. Maybe ashamed, too. That bothers him greatly and does not bode well at all for the plans her mother and his parents have made for them.

Jon likes it here and doesn’t want to lose his place. To leave without a good reference would be very hard but he’s young and strong and he can find work somewhere if he’s dismissed. Either way, Joffrey will not impose on the lady any longer this night. 

He paces nearer, taking some satisfaction from the manner in which Joffrey lets go of her arm and recoils when Jon does. He’s afraid of him. All bluster just as Jon had expected. 

He stops a respectable distance from Lady Sansa and asks gently, “Shall I escort you to your mother, my lady?”

Her eyes leave the floor to meet his and she nods. 

Joffrey’s hissing mad but Jon doesn’t care. He steps aside to allow her to walk past him. He might wish to offer her his arm but that’s for gentlemen to do and not undergardeners. He’ll follow in her wake and see that she reaches her mother with no interference from Joffrey. 

Up the wide staircase they climb with Jon three paces behind. He looks over his shoulder at one point and is relieved that Joffrey has not followed. 

Outside what may be her mother’s rooms or her own (Jon doesn’t know), Lady Sansa spins and thanks him in a wavering voice before quickly hurrying inside. 

He nods to the wooden door. “You’re welcome, my lady.”

* * *

The Baratheons have been gone three days when she comes to him. They'd left the morning following that dinner and the scene in the library after some sort of uproar that the gardeners only hear bits and pieces of. 

Unfortunately, it is not an ideal time for her to pay a call on him when she comes but how would she know that? 

The muscles in his arms, shoulders and chest burn from the tedious and arduous pruning he’s been at the past two hours. The godswood takes care of itself but this ivy is on the outer wall and gate leading into it. Thus, it’s his problem to resolve, his task to complete. 

The sun is getting low. Willem had reckoned Jon could have it finished by sundown but some of the branches are very thick and there’s thorns. It’s been a right bastard to say the least. 

He longs for his supper. He could go for another one of those lemon cakes. He might like to watch Lady Sansa eat another one of them again even more. 

_Christ, don't think on that._

The dessert course had nearly been his undoing. Well, it'd been his undoing last night in his bed after everyone else was asleep. His mind can recall details with tortuous clarity, it seems, like the way Lady Sansa's eyes had literally rolled back when she took her first bite. She’d glanced his way and they’d shared a private smile, the treat she’d brought him earlier at the forefronts of their mind. 

And then, she’d licked a spot of glaze off her upper lip. It was too cruel of her though he thinks her actions were innocently done. Eve and her apple. Sansa and her lemon cake. There’d been such an expression of ecstasy on her face when her lips had puckered from the tartness. He’s not sure if it was more holy or profane. He’d like it though. God, help him, he surely had. 

He chides himself for revisiting those thoughts now when he's working. A thorn catches him as if in rebuke the next instant.

“Bleeding hell,” he grumbles.

A tinkling laugh, so musical he thinks it must come from the Druid spirits that linger around the godswood according to Willem. 

But no Druids take this much delight in his cursing. “Are you teaching the ivy who’s master or is it teaching you?”

She’s as bad as her younger sister about sneaking up on him. 

She’s wearing a walking gown or afternoon dress. Whatever it is they would label it. He’s no lady’s maid. It’s a pale green with lace on it. Very pretty. Her hat matches it. Jon can say that much of it. There’s also gloves covering her hands. He’s never seen her hands, he realizes.

_They’re not covered in scratches with dirt under the nails like yours anyway._

He thinks back on her question to give an answer. “The battle is still in progress and the outcome has not yet been decided, my lady.”

“‘The battle is still in progress and the outcome has not yet been decided,’” she repeats, laughing. “You know, you have an elegant turn of phrase at times and speak very properly for a…” His brow furrows and her face grows flushed. “I apologize. It is rude of me to make assumptions or…it was rude of me. Forgive me, Jon.”

He snips some more ivy, letting her stew in the uncomfortable silence for a few seconds before relenting. “It’s alright. My mother sent me away to school for a time."

"Not a village school then?"

"No, the best she could afford. And she taught me herself when I was home as well.”

_*snip*_

“Your mother did?”

“Yes.”

“And your father was…”

_*snip, snip*_

“Never around."

Jon does not look up at her. He's not sure what she'll make of the admittance or half-admittance. He's a bastard and does not even know his father's name. There's a letter that could tell him but he's not opened it yet. He shoves the thought away and steers the conversation away from whoever sired him. 

"My mother was in service.”

“Oh?” She’s interested and takes another step closer. "Where was that?"

_*snip, snip*_

He’s not sure why she should care. He also likes that she cares far too much.

“Derbyshire and later Sheffield. She worked as a nursery maid and governess in different households.”

“A governess? My last governess was from France, a very well educated lady whose family had, um…fallen on lean times when she was younger.”

“Yes, lean times. Mum had her share of those.”

_*snip, snip, snip*_

He falls silent again, not really wanting to give a full accounting of himself or his mother. Why is she here? Doesn’t she need to change her dress for dinner? How many times does she change clothes in a day? He’s got three shirts to his name. This one’s got a tear in it now thanks to another ruddy thorn.

_*snip, snip*_

“I didn’t lead him into the library to tease him.”

His breath catches in his throat. Does he want to hear this? Part of him does. 

“Joffrey, I mean,” she clarifies as if he’s forgotten. He’s not forgotten. 

“I…it’s not my business, my lady.”

“No but I wanted you to know I’m not like that.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

_*snip, snip, snip*_

He’s never getting this done by supper. 

“I did allow him kiss me first though and I suppose that might've led to the, um...trouble.” 

He blinks and stops attempting to prune. She has his attention but there’s a tight little knot in his guts that doesn’t want to give it now. 

“I’d never been kissed and was curious.” 

She's never been kissed? He wants to tell her that’s impossible. A beauty like her? A whole village of men would line up to kiss her. _Well, she’s not a simple village girl._ He’d be at the head of the line though…and then thrash any other man who tried to come behind him. 

“Anyway, I thought, if we really are going to marry, I may as well see if I liked kissing him or not.”

That knot in his guts seems to be swelling. He recognizes it. It’s jealousy. And that absolute scrub got to be her first kiss!

She’s rubbing at her upper arms as they’re crossed over her chest. He scowls, wondering if the left arm is still purple or if it’s faded to yellow. Maybe both arms were bruised. It’s been a while since Jon’s decided he hates anyone. He hates someone whose name is Joffrey with a frightening fury now. 

“I didn’t care for it…for his kisses, I mean. I certainly didn’t care for what happened after.”

“I would say not,” he sighs. “I’m sorry that happened, my lady. He is not worthy of you.”

“Oh, he’s worth a great deal when it comes to his future fortune though,” she says, bitterly.

Her bitterness turns his stomach, makes that knot in his guts burn with wrath. “Fortune of that sort doesn’t make a man worthy.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Well, the battle is still in progress and the outcome is not yet decided, as you would say.”

“You’re not going to marry him now, are you?!”

She looks surprised by the question. Perhaps he’s not supposed to be the one to ask the questions. That option is hers alone. His tone might've been a little sharp, too.

“It's not decided.”

He starts pruning again to keep from huffing at that.

_*snip, snip, snip-snip, snip*_

He should keep his mouth shut.

“He hurt you.”

She's studying the ivy that he's already cleared away. “He’d had too much wine with dinner. It would be a sound match and…”

“He was _forcing_ himself on you.” 

“He got the wrong impression about what I wanted. It was improper of me to lead him into the library to speak alone and allow the kiss in the first place.”

“You’re blaming yourself now, are you?” he huffs.

_*snip, snip, snip*_

“No, I’m not blaming myself for anything. I’m merely explaining it to you so you won’t have the wrong impression.”

"I don't have the wrong impression. His behavior speaks quite clearly for itself."

"Our fathers were friends."

 _His father's a sot and an oaf. Was yours?_ He does not say that. "That does not truly bind you, does it, my lady?"

"No but..." 

"What did your mother say?"

"She, uh...I didn't..."

"You haven't told her?!"

She's growing flustered and her next words bring his patience to an end. "It's a complicated matter that I'm not sure you could appreciate without..."

“Why are you here?” he snaps. Between jealousy, fatigue and irritation, he can only take so much. 

“I...I wanted to thank you for your aid, Jon.”

“You thanked me that night.”

_*snip-snip, snip-snip, snip, snip, snip*_

“Well, I…could you please stop that for a moment?”

“I have work to do, my lady. This ivy must be trimmed away before I may have my supper and take my ease for the night. I have been at work for nearly nine hours. I would prefer to finish this but if you desire that I stand here idly as you tell me of disappointing kisses and defend the worthiness of worthless men, I suppose that is your prerogative, isn't it?”

Has anyone without a title before their name ever spoken to her this way? He highly doubts it. 

His momentary (and very petty) triumph is instantly vanquished though when she blinks rapidly and says, “I’m sorry. I won't bother you again,” before she turns and runs away.

He stands there fuming at himself and at the world. He attacks the ivy with his anger and gets a sliced thumb for his efforts. He tosses down his pruning shears in frustration. Angry tears threaten but he will not shed them. 

Picking up his shears, he heads to the gardener's residence by the Glass Gardens and prepares to admit his failure...one of them anyway. Willem can give him an earful over supper if he wishes. He deserves it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So our undergardener has a sharp tongue at times which he’s regretting right now and he’s not sure what to make of Sansa’s attention towards him because of the very rigid class structure of the times and differences in their stations. Don’t worry, these two will get past that before long 😉.
> 
> But his words about Joffrey will have made an important dent with regards to the expectations of Sansa's world versus what she truly wants. 
> 
> Next chapter, Jon and Sansa speak again with a lemon to break the ice. (And if you're an old school fic reader, I'm sorry but it's not _that_ variety of lemon just yet 😅.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promise I’ll be updating other WIPs when I’m back from vacay next week (plus there’s a couple of Jonsa events next month I might participate in) but I hope you’ll enjoy the next chapter of this one today🤞.
> 
> Thanks for the lovely support thus far 💕💕💕

If he’d spoken intemperately to one of the kitchen maids, he’d walk right up to the girl with his cap in hand and make an apology. 

Things are not so simple in this case. 

Perhaps he’d bring that hypothetical kitchen maid some flowers as well if he had certain intentions towards her. Actually, he might bring her flowers regardless of his intentions. He _is_ a gardener and his mother had said more than once the world could always use more kindness. 

Kindness aside, he knows it would not be considered appropriate for an undergardener to bring flowers to one of the young ladies of the house. To be frank, they’re all her family’s flowers anyway, aren’t they?

_I could walk to the village and see what an obliging meadow might offer…but they may wilt before I have the chance to present them._

A week has passed since he last spoke with Lady Sansa; a week of wet weather, restless sleep and meals that have lost their flavor for him. Or nearly. He is prodigiously hungry after work most days and Nan and her helpers are good cooks. 

With the rain, Lady Sansa has spent most of her time indoors. Her occasions to go below stairs are few. She is not the lady of the house. That is her mother’s role. 

Meanwhile, Jon has no cause to be anywhere in the main house beyond the kitchen and only then at specified times. 

“What are you about, boy?” Hill asks, sharply. “It’s not time for your next meal already, is it?” Lynora Hill is lady’s maid to Lady Stark and quite prickly with a majority of the staff, especially those resting on the lower rungs of its hierarchy. 

She is not more than eight years his senior though a dried-up, old spinster in the making if ever he’s seen one. Jon would like to answer that he is nearly one and twenty, not a boy, but he cannot afford to have her poisoning Lady Stark against him after he’s made a fool of himself with Lady Sansa. 

“Willem sent me up to return this to Cook,” he replies, indicating the pie dish in his arms. 

Willem and Nan have both served here for ages, under the former Lord Stark’s father even, and Jon’s realized the gardener and the cook share a mutual respect for one another and a friendship. The pie had been made especially for Willem and his boys by Nan (and no, he doesn’t mind Nan or Willem referring to him as a boy). It had been devoured within minutes of it being sat on their common room table last night. 

“Well, leave it then.”

“Willem said for me to put it in Cook’s hands myself.” 

That might be stretching the truth a bit. Willem had only said to be sure she got it. Jon’s taken the liberty of expanding on those directions in hopes of lingering up by the house a little longer. 

Yesterday when the rain had finally slacked off, he’d spied Lady Sansa out riding with her sister and younger brothers. She’d looked very fine in her riding habit but he’d not been near enough to speak…assuming she would’ve allowed him the privilege. 

He’s hoping by lingering near the house and in particular the kitchens he might spot her heading towards the stables again today. This was around the time of day he’d seen her yesterday. 

“Suit yourself then,” Hill sniffs before turning back to Megette, the head housemaid. “Anyway, after the baroness had called the baron out on his disgraceful lechery loud enough for Desmond to hear as he was passing and they'd got into such a dreadful fight, they told my lady that they would be returning home earlier than expected. All talk of an engagement has come to a halt for the time being.”

“Oh, that’s quite a pity. He seems such a fine and handsome young man.”

“With a handsome pocketbook.”

The two geese titter over that and Jon has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes since there is no question of whom they are speaking.

“All is not lost though,” Hill says next. “His valet told me before they left that his young man is quite determined he shall have her for his bride within the next year which of course will be most welcome considering the unfortunate circumstances.” 

_Unfortunate circumstances? What circumstances?_ Jon longs to ask.

“Circumstances?” Megette asks for him. She is rather useful.

Hill lowers her voice but not enough to prevent Jon's sharp ears from hearing every word. “Lady Catelyn's former man of business Mr. Bolton was involved in some dubious schemes and her ladyship lost a great deal the last two quarters before she was rid of him."

"Oh my."

"Then, Lord Robb flew off and married a practically penniless girl instead of the Frey heiress who everyone expected he would."

"I'm sure they're quite in love."

"I'd wager he was afraid he'd got the little hussy in kindle and felt honor bound to march her down the aisle."

"Oh Hill!" Megette cackles.

"And of course, the never ending upkeep of this place weighs heavy on my lady’s head.”

“True but I don’t see how Lady Sansa making a match with the young gentleman will help that. He’ll get her dowry and Lady Stark will be all the poorer for it.”

“Well, her ladyship doesn’t speak of it directly but I believe that the hope is, if her daughter should be agreeable to accepting him and with the Baratheon and Lannister connections…”

“Oh Jon, is that my dish?” Nan asks, walking in and nearly frightening him and the two gossips to death. She doesn’t move so quick but apparently she’s light of foot. 

“It-it is,” he stammers.

He's flustered that he's been caught hanging on to every word whilst distressed that Lady Sansa’s potential match with the worthless little shit is still a real possibility. 

He passes the pie dish over though and makes a recovery of sorts. “Your pie was so good it didn't even last a full half hour.”

Nan grins at that and pats his cheek as if she really is his gran before turning a sharp eye on the two interlopers who have dared to invade her kingdom. “What are you two doing loitering about in my kitchen? Ain’t no work for the likes of either of you in here, is there?”

"We're simply talking," Hill sniffs. 

"Talking, is it? Do you know what my dearly departed husband's Irish mam once told me about that sort of talking? She said the silent mouth is often the most melodious, she did. Now, go and talk somewhere besides my kitchen."

Megette gives a curtsy and scampers off. Hill scowls at Nan but does not argue. As the household hierarchy of servants go, she’s well on par with Hill…or maybe slightly above considering her far longer years of service. He’s witnessed nothing but respect and warmth from everyone who interacts with Nan including Lady Stark.

Jon gives Hill a cheeky smile as she stalks past him as Nan's muttering "Gossipy, daft hens" under her breath but then Nan picks up her wooden spoon and waves it his way.

“Go on with yourself now. I won’t have Willem accusing me of feeding you treats and keeping you from your work.”

He takes two steps out of her reach but can’t resist a saucy reply. “But you’ve not fed me any treats yet, Nan.”

“Oh, I haven’t, have I?” She places her hands on her hips, giving him a look and then plucks a biscuit from a nearby jar and holds it out. “Go on then. You can’t say I never gave you what you deserve.”

He reaches for the biscuit intent on shoving it into his mouth when her hand darts out quicker than he’d believe possible and whacks his knuckles with that wooden spoon. 

“Ow!”

“As I said, you can’t say I never gave you what you deserve.” 

“How did I deserve that?!” he asks, giving her a wounded look.

“Young men are always up to some sort of mischief, ain't they?” she chuckles before offering the biscuit again. “Go on and take it for true now and I hope you might enjoy it...even though my sweet girl came seeking a lemon cake the other afternoon before her supper, looking quite teary.”

His stomach closes up even as he accepts the biscuit. “Your sweet girl?”

“Aye, she was quite downcast."

"And she told you what I...uh, said?"

"No, she only mentioned as how she never wished to be a bother to anyone and regretted that the ivy had so many thorns.”

“Christ,” he says, hanging his head. “Nan, I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. Well, I suppose I did but I didn’t really want to. I just can't see how a girl as fine as her could ever think a wretch like that could make her happy."

Nan sighs and pats the knuckles she'd whacked. "Sometimes, we forget that our own happiness matters, too," she says sadly. "He would be the sorriest of husbands and only bring her strife. Maybe she'll see it. Maybe someone might've opened her eyes a bit but, in the end, she'll have to realize it for herself. Sometimes when we've been expecting a certain thing to go a certain way for so long, it can be hard letting go of it."

"I can’t stand myself since it happened. I'd talk to her but she’s a lady and I’m just…me.”

“You’re just you? You’re a person and so is she.” She gives him a gentle poke in the chest with that spoon of hers. "We all have feelings, don't we?"

“Of course, we do.”

“She worries over her mother and doesn't tell her all her misgivings. Her father, God rest his soul, is gone and her elder brother is away."

"She wanted someone to talk to."

"She did."

"Why me?"

"Why indeed? Anyway, I’ve known these children all their lives, Jon Snow. I know they live very high and they may not know all our struggles but they care about us and we care about them. And my sweet girl’s got a tender, loving heart beneath that courtesy she wears like armor.” 

Courtesy she wears like armor. Marriages that hold no appeal except that she likely knows at least some of her mother's worries. The expectations for a young lady like Sansa are not ones he's familiar with...and yet he is. It all boils down to the same thing. Find a good match, get married, have children. No matter how the world might be striving for change in this new century, the old ways still hold firm. Her wishes and aspirations beyond that are moot to most so long as she fulfills the role that's expected of her. But Sansa will have to make the choice of whether or not she goes along with that. 

“I want to make it right with her but I don't know how." 

“Well, that's something you'd best work out or I can go ahead and give you another swat.” She holds her spoon up again though she's trying not to grin. 

“I’ll find a way,” he chuckles, daring to dart forward to kiss the old woman’s cheek before scurrying off for fear that might earn him another whack. 

* * *

The sun is shining the next day when Willem tells Jon to join him in the Glass Garden. They say it’s warm in here even in the winter and he’s sweating as they tend the lemon trees. 

Some gardeners hold to superstitious practices when it comes to caring for their favored plants and flowers. Willem is no different. 

“Water from the godswood once a moon is my secret,” he tells Jon as if he’s just shared the location of the Holy Grail. “No other estate in Britain can boast of lemons as fine as ours.”

It is no short walk from the heart of the godswood to the Glass Garden. Willem is getting well on in years so it is Jon who has carried bucket after bucket of water. That is alright. He is young and strong and can be of use to those who are older and wiser than him.

Once the lemon trees have been watered, Willem inspects each branch, lovingly giving each leaf a caress. "Trees and flowers can be like women, lad. They blossom best when you listen to what they want. Don't trouble the lilies too much. They know what they're about and won't appreciate your interference. But the wee roses? The orchids? Gardenias? Well, you'd best give them all your attention or they'll shrivel up and turn sour on you."

Jon smiles at Willem's advice and says he will remember.

Once Willem has finished inspecting, he starts passing Jon the lemons he judges have achieved the perfect state of ripeness. 

“More lemon cakes, do you reckon?” he asks Willem, thinking on Sansa and wishing he could bring her one.

“Aye, lemon cakes and perhaps a lemon pie for me if Nan’s in a good mood. And lemon for the ladies in their tea.”

“In their tea?”

“Aye, Lady Catelyn tried it somewhere and both her and Lady Sansa enjoy it in their tea occasionally when the trees are bearing fruit.”

“Is that so?” Jon asks, pocketing the prettiest lemon of the bunch when Willem’s head is turned. 

He prays the bulge in his coat won’t be noticed. It’d be embarrassing to be dismissed for thievery considering he has no plans to truly steal it at all. How can he steal something he means to give to one of the people it was intended for anyway?

* * *

He’s going to be seen. Willem may very well box his ears and Nan will probably come at him with that spoon again. And Lady Stark…dear lord, he _really_ doesn’t want to lose his place. How could he have allowed himself to be talked into this?

“What are you whingeing about? You asked if I could tell you where she was. There she is.”

How can she behave so carefree? 

_It’s not her who’ll be shown the door if she’s spotted in here._

“I meant if she was down at the stables or taking a stroll on the lawn, my lady. I didn’t mean here in the house!” he hisses.

“But it’s nearly time for tea. Sansa almost always plays before she takes tea,” Lady Arya explains as if it’s as simple as two plus two equals four. 

“How was I supposed to know that, my lady?”

She rolls her eyes at him calling her ‘my lady’ and gives him a shove through the door. “Go on. Go talk to her since you’re all abuzz over something you simply must tell her.” She starts to close the door on him when she has another thought. “You said it was important. You’re not going to be taking liberties with my sister, are you, Jon?”

_If I said I’d like to, how hard might you slap me?_

“No, I’m not going to be taking liberties with your sister, my lady. Keep an eye out for me, will you? If your mother or Hill catches me in here…”

“Fine. No funny business and you made a promise.”

“Yes,” he begrudgingly agrees whilst fervently hoping the WSPU aren’t planning any processions or militant revolts in support of women’s suffrage in Wintertown anytime soon. It’s not that he’s opposed to women getting the vote but how’s he supposed to explain taking Lady Arya anywhere, let alone there? He’s not the bloody chauffeur. 

Satisfied, she makes her exit leaving him alone in the music room with Lady Sansa. 

Her back is to him and she’s still playing. Tall and straight-backed, her gown is a pastel yellow with soft blue stripes. It’s less laced up looking than much of what he's seen her wearing. He wonders if she's wearing a corset. His head tilts to the side for a moment until he chastises himself. He really shouldn’t be thinking about that.

Her head bobs along as she plays. Haydn, he thinks. He wonders how she managed not to hear his kerfuffle with her sister.

“What did you promise to do so she would sneak you in here?” Her fingers never miss a note. 

God Above, Lady Stark’s daughters will be the death of him. 

He plucks up his courage and walks over to the piano. “I said I’d take her to the next rally for the women’s movement should they host one here.”

She gives him an appraising look before returning her attention to the instrument. “‘Deeds not words.’ Those events can turn dangerous.”

“I would not let any harm befall her.”

“You would not _want_ any harm to befall her. You are not omnipotent when it comes to the plans and deeds of others though, are you, Jon?”

"No, my lady." His eyes drop to her hands. This is the first time he’s seen her without gloves. They’re as pale and soft-looking as he’d imagined. He very much wishes he could touch them. “You’re right. Perhaps I will tell her I’ve reconsidered and her safety is paramount, even more so than the cause.”

“Arya would never forgive you if you didn’t take her after you promised.”

“But _you_ might not forgive me if I did.”

She brings Haydn to a close and looks his way again. “And that matters to you, does it?”

He pulls the lemon from his pocket and carefully places it on the piano. “Yes, it matters to me.” He’s pleased to see the way her eyes are shining between his words and the lemon sitting there. “I wanted to see you, to tell you I’m sorry for the way I behaved last week. You’re no bother to me, my lady.”

She swallows hard with evident emotion and picks up the lemon, holding it to her nose and inhaling deeply. “Is this a peace offering then?”

“It is. It’s nearly time for tea, isn’t it? I had heard you preferred to take yours with lemon when possible.”

Her lips twitch. "Thank you. Would you care to join me...if you have a few minutes?" She scoots over on the bench, an invitation. 

“My trousers are not the cleanest, my lady.” Everything in this room is finer than him, her most of all.

“You’ve not been wading in the pond today, have you?”

“No, my lady,” he chuckles.

“Then, I do not mind it. It’s only a little honest dirt.” 

_Dirt is dirt,_ he thinks but does not argue. 

She reaches for a piece of music and places it on the stand. “You're right about him," she says as she starts playing softly. "He was charming in London at first and I knew it had been talked of between our parents. I was certain I could go through with it and it wouldn't be so bad. But the more time I spent with him, the more my feelings on the matter began to revolt. I've still been trying to tell myself that I could do this...but I don't want to."

"You don't have to."

An achingly bittersweet smile. "No, I don't have to marry Joffrey. I _won't_ marry Joffrey...but I will still be expected to marry someone suitable someday and who's to say he'll be any better." 

He's not sure what to say, not wishing to inflict any more pain. And knowing he could never be that 'someone suitable' wounds his heart and his pride. This is the world they live in though.

She continues by saying, "I was not showing you the proper respect last week.”

“How were _you_ not showing _me_ the proper respect last week, my lady? I was the one who was intolerably rude.”

“No, you have work to do while I have the freedom to do as I please much of the time. My father always reminded us not to interfere with the tasks of the people who serve our family so faithfully but I was busy prattling away…”

Unthinking, he reaches over, allowing two fingers to brush the back of her hand where its poised above the keys. His hands look so dark and rough compared to hers and yet there’s something striking about that. 

She stops playing and their eyes meet. He can hear her shallow, rapid breaths. Is she frightened or offended by his touch? Or is she stirred by it like he is? 

“If something is troubling you and you should wish to share it with me, my lady, I hope you know I would never consider your words mere prattle."

"Thank you, Jon. It would be nice to have someone around my age who I might...share things. Mama worries enough."

"Mothers do that," he says, allowing a little melancholy to tinge his words. 

"Jon, is your mother..."

"She passed away in December, a cough that lingered until it became pneumonia."

"I'm so very sorry."

Her hand touches his this time but he doesn't react the same. The pain is still so raw at times. The best he can do is nod, letting the grief work its way along like the tide washing up and back. 

"You speak of someone close in age to share things with. You have a sister who loves you," he reminds her when he has mastered his emotions again.

She smiles. "I do but she has very firm opinions on some matters and we do occasionally grow cross with each other."

"Sisters who grow cross with one another? Who would imagine such a thing?" he teases but nearly yelps when her answering giggles cause her shoulder to bump against his. "You may find I can be firm in my opinions as well."

"I shall look forward to waging battle with you then, sir."

His ears redden. "No one calls me sir, my lady."

"That is a shame. Too many people call me my lady. Perhaps when we are speaking like this, you might just call me Sansa?"

Oh, that is a line he must not cross. 

"It would be my pleasure, Sansa."

_Well done. Held out all of one second._

"I'll have you know that I would find it unfair to unburden myself to you if you are not willing to do the same with me though. So if you prefer to keep your confidences to yourself, I will not resent you for it."

"I believe you will find, when I have time to speak, I can prattle away with the best of them."

They share another laugh, their heads drifting close together here on the piano bench. They both notice at the same time and straighten. Her eyes dip downward and she licks her lips. That pink tongue will torment him again tonight. He licks his own lips and wishes he could pretend he was something other than what he is right now.

Even so, it is only the clock chiming a quarter ‘til which keeps him from folly as he dreams of leaning in and covering her lips with his. “It’s nearly time for tea.”

“No guests are coming today. We’re quite at our ease.” So that is why she is not wearing a corset...not that he has noticed. “There’s time for a little more music, I believe.”

“Will your mother come to listen?”

“No, she’ll be in her parlor waiting for Arya and I to join her.”

He nods. It's still foolish of him to linger here but he trusts that Arya will alert him if anyone approaches and he doesn't want to leave just yet. Just one more piece.

She starts to play again. No Haydn or any other classical composer this time. It’s only ten years old or so. When she reaches the chorus, she sings.

_“She's only a bird in a gilded cage,_

_A beautiful sight to see,_

_You may think she's happy and free from care,_

_She's not, though she seems to be…”_

He’s never heard a lovelier voice singing such a terribly sad song. His mother had liked this one when she was in the mood for a cry as she'd say but Jon had never paid much heed to the words until today. 

By the time the clock strikes four, he's bid Sansa farewell and Arya's guided him down the back stairwell. He breathes a sigh of relief that he's escaped the house undetected. He grimaces the next moment realizing how he must hurry if he's to catch up on his work and be done by sunset. 

Tending the cabbages in Nan's vegetable garden though is second nature to him. He can do this task easily enough even as he's wiping his eyes remembering Sansa's choice of song. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from 'A Bird in a Gilded Cage' by Arthur J. Lamb and Harry Von Tilzer (1900).


	4. Chapter 4

In general, finding time to talk together is not as simple as Lady Arya leading him to her sister in the music room. He has his work and she has her own responsibilities and concerns. Privacy is at a premium with such a large staff and her mother, younger brothers and sister about and he can hardly join her for afternoon tea or go riding with her.

They manage though. They manage rather well.

Lady Sansa has developed a keen interest in horticulture of late, especially when it comes to the lemon trees. Old Willem is fond of her ladyship’s children but doesn't consider himself a great conversationalist when it comes to young ladies so he lets Jon answer all of Lady Sansa’s questions and does not seem put out over her following the young man about for twenty minutes or so most days so long as he gets his work done. Jon is quite diligent about getting his work done.

In addition to taking their ease after supper, Willem and his boys have Wednesday afternoons and most of their Sundays free. Jon has lost interest in having a dram at the pub in the village with the other lads on Wednesday afternoons. He’s mentioned exploring the godswood, a place where his pruning shears are not needed. He’s more learned than them and of a more serious disposition so they chalk it up to one of Jon Snow's singularities and leave him to it.

And, as it so happens, Lady Sansa has chosen to spend her Sundays after church there in reflection and wanders through it on more than one Wednesday afternoon stroll as well. 

The entrance gate may be free of ivy once more but he knows this place is not one meant for gardeners. He always shivers once he sets foot within its walls as if some ancient power rests in this dark and primal wood. It is here amongst the ash, oak and pines where the humus of five hundred years covers the ground that Jon and Sansa find one another for their most intimate talks.

Despite their austere and awe-inspiring surroundings, their tête-à-têtes are nothing likely to excite philosophers…but they do tend to delight, provoke or even arouse Jon.

Jon has admitted his desire of owning a cottage with a little garden someday. She does not mock him for it even if they're both worldly enough to know his chances of achieving that dream are pitifully slim on a servant's wages.

Sansa has told him of her worries, of being seen but never truly _heard_. He _listens_ and does not rashly dismiss her concerns simply because she has more advantages than many of her sex. 

Six weeks have passed since these meetings began and Jon thinks he will never have enough of them. Each time they end though, he fears that it may be the last time, that at some point they will be discovered and these meetings will be forbidden. Or worse, that Sansa will decide for herself that she has better things to do with her time.

Their favorite spot is by the enormous old tree at the center of this place where the murky pools from which Jon fetches water for the lemon trees lie. Sansa sits upon an exposed root the size of a log which has been smoothed over the years until it resembles marble though warmer. Jon sits on the ground at her feet or climbs the lowest branch of the tree or, if he’s feeling especially bold, on the root beside her.

On this Sunday, he is at her feet, a faithful knight awaiting his lady’s command.

The way the light filters through the trees in here, it turns her auburn hair into a halo. It’s bewitching and there are times he forgets the vast difference in their respective ranks here for she is no longer a mere mortal being like himself. She ascends. She is a wood nymph, a water sprite, she is the queen of the fairies.

_And I am the foolish mortal who gladly gives her his heart._

“Are your eyes closed?” he asks in preparation for today’s game.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“No cheating.”

“I never cheat!”

“You always try to,” he teases, loving her huff and little scowl far too much. He pulls the day’s mystery out. “Alright, which is this?”

He holds the flower right under her nose, smothers a chuckle when her nose twitches like a rabbit’s seeking the scent.

“Gardenia?” she guesses at length.

“No, this doesn’t grow in the Glass Garden.”

She bites at her plump, pink bottom lip as she thinks. Her eyelids flutter. She has been known to peek. So, he lets the small petals brush against her cheek, waiting to see if she’ll jump in surprise like the first time he did it or if her breath will hitch that intoxicating way it has every time since.

“Let me guess again,” she says after that little hitch sets his pulse to racing.

He places it back under her nose and watches those beautiful blue eyes open. She is not cheating now. Her eyes rest solely on his face.

“It’s sweet.”

 _Yes, you are_. He nods.

“Bees must like it.”

“They do very much.”

She smiles, making another guess. “Honeysuckle.”

“Correct.”

He pulls the little sprig away from her face but holds it between them, waiting. Her hand comes up to take it, covers his own for a few precious moments as they gaze at one another until she takes the honeysuckle fully and their hands part.

That is their game. She’ll make her guesses and, right or wrong, she’ll take the flower or plant he’s brought with her. And thus, he brings his lady flowers every time they meet this way.

He wipes his hands off on this fine Sunday afternoon and takes a seat by her side. They sit close but not too close and yet it’s as exhilarating as anything he’s ever known.

She twirls the honeysuckle between her fingers, her expression pensive. 

“Something troubles you?” he prompts. 

“A close acquaintance of my family's is playing host to a large gathering at their home next month for several days. We have been invited. The Baratheons have been invited as well.”

That is troubling indeed. He cannot wait at table or watch over her in another house. “Does your mother wish to go?”

“I’m not sure she _wishes_ to go. It will be tedious dinners and the men going out to shoot but I doubt she will refuse the invitation.” She shifts her seat to face him. Their knees touch. “I do not wish to go.”

“You should tell your mother that. I’m sure you could stay here.”

A chagrined look. He has urged her more than once to speak her mind regarding Joffrey. That night he’d walked into the library nearly two months ago has not left her but it was not her mother’s room she’d led him to, he’s discovered. It was her own. Lady Stark is still ignorant of what occurred, has only noticed that Sansa is not particularly attached to the future baron but thinks in time those feelings may change.

The Starks are very well respected. The Baratheons are not as much. Lord Robert’s dissolute habits are widely known. His boyhood friendship with Lord Stark has kept him from becoming too much of a pariah in their set and the dowry his wife brought him from her very wealthy family has kept him from getting too much in debt. 

As for Lady Baratheon, her own reputation has been blown upon off and on since she came out into society as Miss Cersei Lannister. Between whispers of an inappropriate relationship with her twin brother to rumors that she’s taken more than one lover amongst the male members of her household staff in latter years, she probably wouldn't be received by many if it weren't for her father's vast wealth and the way she holds her head so high daring any to refuse her. As lovers go, her husband’s young valet is said to be the current favorite though Jon would guess, based on the look she gave him that night he poured her wine, that she is by no means devoted to the young man.

Thus, between Sansa’s dowry and the air of respectability a union with the Starks might give them, the match is quite desirable on their end.

For the Starks, it would mean a family alliance with the Lannisters who are prodigiously wealthy and well-connected in various industries beyond agriculture. If Winterfell is to endure, it will need to find a way to enter these areas of the market as well. Living off tenant rents and what income the wheat or barley might bring will not be enough to see it through this new century many predict. 

That is why Lady Stark is in favor of the match though she certainly hopes her daughter might find joy in it as well. 

"She does not _push_ me. She merely hints." 

Sansa does not like feeling pushed. However, Jon imagines coming from a woman as iron-willed as Lady Stark can sometimes be, it is difficult to ignore her hints. 

“She speaks of her marriage to my father, of how they did not know one another well when their parents set them on a path to each other. Brick by brick, she tells me they found love and swears it is the only true way to build a strong marriage.”

“There is much sense in what she says. A relationship founded in respect, breeding trust and affection and then love, is no mean thing. But if she knew his true character…” 

He lets that linger but does not push. Sansa must decide when she is ready to assert herself and her wishes in this case. He cannot do it for her. 

_Not unless I mean to haul her over my shoulder and steal her away._

That idea does hold appeal. In his wildest romantic imaginings, he would do just that. But this is not a fairytale and he is an undergardener, not a thief. 

“Alright, Mama and Father's arranged marriage turned out to be quite a happy one but isn’t there anything to be said for passion?” she asks him earnestly. 

She is young like he is and full of her own romantic imaginings, no doubt. Does he enter into those imaginings? He does wonder. Is he a curiosity? A temptation to her? 

“Oh, there is much to be said for it, I’m sure, though it ends unhappy as often as not.”

“How do you know?” she laughs and then appears stricken the next moment. “Perhaps you do know though. Perhaps I am impertinent to assume you would not know of passion.” She blushes so prettily as she becomes absorbed in smoothing down her skirts.

“I do not know from personal experience.” Her brow smooths out as well as her skirts and she looks at him again. “Though I suppose in a sense I do even if I was not an active participant in the matter.”

“Is this a riddle for me to solve?”

“No, it is the story of my parents.”

“Oh!” She’s embarrassed, perhaps from his admittance or likely fearing she’s overstepped. He was the one who brought them up. She’s curious enough to work past her embarrassment and ask, “Will you tell me of it, Jon?”

Of course, he will. He would tell her anything she should like to hear. He would tell her he loves her if he thought she should like to hear that for it is true. 

His parents...it is a scandal though a thoroughly common one. He wonders if Sansa is aware _how_ common it is. She is a very intelligent young lady and, though she has been sheltered in her upbringing to a degree, her eyes have been opened beyond the nursery for quite some time. 

He gathers his thoughts and draws a deep breath before he begins. 

His mother was born into a fine home, the daughter of a gentleman of some property, but the Panic of ’73 had sent the family’s fortunes into a steady decline. Her own mother had passed not long after her birth and her father’s spirits had become more and more oppressed. At his death, when Jon's mother had been fifteen, they were living in a genteel state of penury. Her elder brother inherited the house and what little money was left and promised to find her a respectable match but he managed to lose more money than he gained before succumbing to wounds received during a duel. 

Lyanna Snow had found herself a young lady with very little money to call her own and in desperate need of a living. She became a governess growing quite attached to her pupil as they were close in age. Three years she held the position. However, when the young lady was no longer in need of a governess, Lyanna had sought employment with a family with younger children so that she might remain with them for more than a couple of years. 

Thus, that was how she entered into service, a respectable form of employment though an unfortunate necessity for a young lady in reduced circumstances.

It was when she was with that second family, who had a second home in Bath, that she met Jon's father. He had come for a visit and, being great friends with his mother's employer, had chosen to remain for most of the season at his friend's house. 

“I do not know the details of their affair but I was the result,” Jon admits, staring into the dark water since he cannot meet her eye just now. "The man left before she was aware. She wrote a letter to him but it was not answered.”

Sansa shakes her head, anguish and anger at play on her face.

“Once her employer learnt of her condition, he gave her the choice to give up her child to the foundling home or find a way to, um…put an end to her pregnancy.”

“Oh Jon, that’s horrid!” she gasps, taking his hand and brushing her cheek against it. His heart could burst over the sweetness of it. “But she refused either option.”

“Yes, she did and her employment was terminated.”

“That wretched man! Both of them! Horrible wretched men!” She's so moved she stands and paces for several minutes before resuming her seat. "I'm so very sorry for your poor mother."

He will silently admit to himself that her fury and sympathy on his mother’s behalf only makes him fall that much more in love with her. 

“Well, it did not turn out so disastrous as it might have. My mother’s first pupil had married and had a baby of her own by that point. She kindly accepted my mother into service in her modest household to be her child’s nursery maid.”

“And you were permitted to be with your mother that way?”

“Yes but the young woman’s mother-in-law lived nearby and was rather severe. It was decided I would be a nephew instead of her son. I called my own mother Aunt Lyanna the first few years of my life not knowing any better.”

“Oh, sweet Jon," she cries, taking his hand again. He does not want pity but he'll admit he likes this part. "You were only a child but how that must have wounded your mother's feelings to engage in the subterfuge. It’s not fair that she was forced to lie.”

“No, it wasn’t fair. None of it was. After a time, my mother grew weary of it and decided to seek out my father. She sent him another letter…and threatened to send one to his wife if he did not answer.”

“He was married?!”

“He’d been married the whole time. He had children as well.”

“Good God. Did he reply?”

“Yes. He met with her and saw me. I've always thought I looked like her but he must’ve seen something of himself in me for he did not attempt to deny I was his. He gave my mother the sum of five hundred pounds to support us and buy her silence."

"Five hundred pounds for her silence?! Five thousand could not buy him any honor, the wicked scrub!" He must suppress a grin at her warm words and outrage.

"Perhaps not. We lived on the money until I was old enough for school and she sent me to the best she could afford with it and returned to service. So you see, that is why I say passion often ends unhappy.”

She nods though she is still holding his hand. "But surely, not all great passions are destined for sorrow, are they, Jon?" 

Her tone breaks his heart for he knows his own great passion is destined for nothing but sorrow in the end. "I hope not, Sansa."

“May I ask who he was?”

“I cannot tell you. I do not know his name. My mother never spoke it to me.”

“That seems…extreme.”

“Perhaps. I do not begrudge her for it though.”

“Was there no trade or career you might’ve pursued after school?”

“No, the money only kept me at school until I was fourteen, not enough to buy my way into an apprenticeship, it seemed. When I returned to her, I went into service at the house where my mother was employed, first as a hall boy before I started following the groundskeeper around. I’m prodigiously well-educated for a gardener but that is my cross to bear." She grins at his deprecating manner. "I talked of becoming a solider for a time but my mother begged me not to and I relented.”

“Good. These hands are better off covered with soil than blood." 

She lightly strokes his palm, sending a dozen jolts of longing shooting up his arm, to his heart and admittedly to his loins. He _must_ not give in to temptation. 

“As for who my father is, I could learn his name if I wished to. When her health was failing, she told me to fetch her pen and paper and wrote me a letter simply addressed ‘when you’re ready.’ She said his name is within.”

“But you have not opened it?”

“No, not so far. I don’t know if I will or not.”

He doesn’t know how to explain his indifference on the matter. His mother is gone and it pains him greatly as it is. He’s not sure he wants any more truths that might bring him more pain. 

He thinks she must sense his pain. Sansa is intuitive, he's noticed, intuitive to other people's emotions. She cares about them. 

When she'd heard Bessie weeping into her apron the other morning, she'd tried to comfort the woman and even come to Nan and then him wishing to know what was the matter. They had both claimed ignorance when Lady Sansa had asked. 

It is not that they would wish to lie to her but neither of them know for certain so they had not related that there is a chance the laundry maid's monthly courses are overdue. If that is the case, it is Bessie's news to share with whom she chooses when she chooses. If she is with child, it cannot remain a secret forever. 

Now, his mother is on his mind again as much as ever and he sighs quietly. 

"There is no telling who your father might be, Jon. He must've been well-off to pay her that much. He might even be a lord. You are his son. Perhaps he could help you or..."

"I don't know if I would want his help, Sansa. I'd rather make my own way than be indebted to any man who could use a girl so and wipe his hands of her and their child for the sum of five hundred pounds." 

She nods, accepting his decision in the matter but lays her head upon his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Their hands are still clasped and they remain that way until the sunlight shifts and she says she must hurry in to dress for dinner.

* * *

It’s Wednesday afternoon but Jon is not in the godswood. The rain has seen to that. A gardener should never curse the rain but he curses when he enters the Glass Garden slightly dampened and regretting that they’ll not have their time together this day. He looks forward to it so. Does she?

On a whim, he’d come here, hoping she might come here as well but he’s passed through every room, inspected every nook and cranny of the labyrinth of a greenhouse already. She is not here. Why would she be? She’s dry in the house where she belongs. This is where he belongs, here or outdoors. 

Lady Catelyn has been in here tending to her roses, he sees. She’s dropped one of the buds which is a bit past its bloom. He picks it up. It’s still quite lovely, a few shades darker than Sansa’s lips and he thinks the petals are likely to be as soft. 

If they were to play their game today, he would give her this _. A rose for my lady._

A door opens and he tucks the rose away, not sure who has found him. He takes a step back into the ferns and waits. 

It’s her. 

His heart is pounding between his ears with every step she takes his way. Her light blue dress is wetter than his shirt. The rain is falling harder. It clings to her body and stirs his. Her hair is down, the red ropes dripping wet. She is his water sprite. Has she come here seeking him? 

She stops by the lemon trees. Perhaps Eve has come to take her forbidden fruit.

“Willem keeps count of every last lemon that’s growing in case you’re thinking of plucking one, my lady.”

She spins, startled by his voice. The next instant she is laughing. “It’s you! I’d hoped to find you here.”

She’s come here in the rain to find him since they cannot go to the godswood together. What does it mean? Dear God, how his chest aches hoping it might mean that she feels something like he does. 

He leaves his ferns behind and steps out into her light. “Was there some particular reason you wished to find me today or am I simply being blessed with the pleasure of your company?”

“Yes…or no. Both.” She wrings her hands and smiles nervously. 

“What is it, Sansa?”

“I know why Bessie was crying the other morning.”

“Oh?” 

“Jeyne told me.”

“I see.” Jeyne Poole is in training under Hill to be Sansa's lady’s maid. She is not quite there yet and she is a year younger than him and Sansa so she is Jeyne instead of Poole for now. “And why was Bessie crying?”

“It's quite shocking," she whispers, looking about.

"We are alone and you came here to share it, I believe."

"You won't tell anyone, will you? I know I shouldn't tell but I don't know what to think...or perhaps I do."

"Tell me and unburden yourself from whatever it is. I won't tell." _Everyone will know it soon enough if Jeyne Poole is privy to it. Poor Bessie._

She cups her hands around her mouth like a child might revealing a great secret but there is nothing childlike about how the gesture enchants Jon. "She feared Lord Baratheon had got her with child whilst he was here.” 

A house has few secrets that remain secret. “She _feared?_ Does she no longer fear that to be the case?”

“No, her monthlies have, um…she does not fear it now. She’s quite relieved.” 

“I should say so.”

They both break into shy grins for it is not a topic young ladies discuss with undergardeners but they both can appreciate Bessie’s relief. 

“I do not want to go anywhere near them knowing he would come to our home and do that with one of our girls, especially after knowing what your mother went through.”

“Would your mother have given Bessie the same sort of choice my mother’s employer made her?”

“No, not Mama. She wouldn’t make a girl leave or give up her baby but there would be some awkwardness, I suppose. And I fear if Bessie had approached Mrs. Mordane first, she might never have found the courage to speak to my mother. Our housekeeper is…”

“On the severe side.”

“Yes, she is,” she agrees. 

“I’m glad you have found me to tell me of Bessie’s relief. Was there something else you wished to discuss though?”

“Only that I…” She hesitates and he wonders if there was something else she wished to say when she says, “Only that I’ve told Mama about Joffrey and that I do not wish to see him again and why.”

”I’m glad you did.”

“She was disappointed that he should be such an unsatisfactory young man but agreed. May we sit and talk like we usually do? I've looked forward to seeing you all day.”

She's looked forward to seeing him just as he aches to see her. He must be dreaming. 

He guides her to a stone bench where the orchids are. They’re turned towards one another. They both agree it is a shame that the rain has kept them from their meeting in the godswood today.

“And yet you found me here.”

“I did. Were you going to work in here?”

“No, I came here hoping to find you.”

Her eyes widen at the acknowledgement. This is more than two young people meeting for friendly conversation in his heart and now he truly believes it may be true for her as well. 

The air is charged with tension. Though autumn approaches, it's like a summer thunderstorm builds inside their enclosed space where the rain patters down on the glass above their heads. No one is here but them. The quiet stretches on, a silence of long-held gazes and pounding hearts. 

“I suppose we won’t have our game today,” she says as breathless as he feels. 

“You’re mistaken. We most certainly will. Close your eyes.”

She does and he takes a moment just to stare at her, memorizing every freckle and eyelash. 

He pulls the rosebud out of his pocket and places it under her nose, chuckling at that little rabbit-like twitch. 

“Bluebell?”

“It has a sweet scent but it does not grow in the meadows or woods of this estate.”

“The orchids?”

“We’re surrounded by them but that is not what you smell. A flower by any other name…” he says, leadingly.

She does not take the hint. She’s waiting, anticipating. The knowledge that she wants him to do it makes him dizzy, makes the blood rush to his cock.

Slowly, he trails the delicate bloom across her cheek starting near her ear and moving along her jaw. She rocks forward on the bench, leaning into the sensation, wanting more…as he does. Her lips part and he cannot resist. He grazes them with the rosebud.

She’s grinning at once at the ticklish sensation, her eyes sparkling with laughter as they flutter open.

“As light as a lover’s kiss,” she sighs, blushing as her eyes fall on the rose. Her hand comes up to cover his. She means to take her prize. He means to take a prize as well.

“Was it? As light as a lover’s kiss?”

The blush deepens though her eyes meet his again. “I would not know. I’ve had no lovers.”

“Nor I,” he admits, his voice thick and deep.

He gives her the rose and lets his hand sink into her damp, silk-soft hair, cupping the back of her head and slowly inching forward, waiting to see if she'll recoil. 

She does not. 

“Let’s compare the rose to a lover’s kiss now, shall we?” he says before pressing his lips to hers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I’ll finish the fic before I post the next chapter but I hope some of you are enjoying it and thanks for reading ❤️


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit o' Jealous Jon and angst ahead before a declaration is made.
> 
> I wasn’t going to post this until chapter six was done but apparently I’m completely bribable when it comes to pretty picsets. Thank you, Lisa 💕

* * *

He’s kept some secrets in his lifetime. He’s known a youthful infatuation or two and these aren't his first kisses but there’s truly nothing for him to compare this to. It’s thrilling, it’s terrifying, it’s everything. 

It swallows him whole and fills him up all at once. 

He breaks his fast remembering whatever words they spoke to each other last. He goes through his morning duties wondering when he might lay eyes on her this day. At noontime, his appetite teeters between insatiable and nonexistent depending upon whether or not he’s seen her, when he thinks he will see her again and wondering if they’ve been _seen_.

And each night in his bed, his thoughts are of her (how he aches and pines) only to drift off into dreams which are full of her as well.

He would call it an obsession except it’s not that. Or it’s not _only_ that. He loves her.

“What did…” _*kiss*_ “…your mother…” _*kiss*_ “…say?”

They are so hungry for each other when they have these stolen moments. Every few syllables are punctuated this way.

“She..." _*kiss*_ "...wanted to know..." _*kiss*_ “...why I..." _*kiss*_ "…was late…” _*kiss*_ “…to tea.”

He pulls back from his next intended movement. (Surprise, it would’ve been another kiss.) “What did you say?”

“I told her that I'd lost track of time sketching the lemon trees in the Glass Garden.”

He brushes a stray tendril of hair back behind her ear that’s come loose from her bun. "Did you tell her you didn't get very far with your sketching?" he asks with what he knows is a very smug grin.

She giggles and shakes her head. 

"She didn't ask for you to present it, did she?"

"No."

"So, I may keep it?"

"You may keep it though it's a very poor attempt. Someone kept distracting me."

"A fool for certain."

"He is no fool but, surely, you'll wish to toss my paltry lemon trees out before long."

He fell asleep with it tucked under his pillow last night. Yes, he is that far gone. "Never. I'm keeping that sketch forever, God willing." 

How soft and tender her eyes grow at his vow. "It wasn't..." _*kiss*_ "...my best work."

"Even so, I want it..." _*kiss*_ "...because you..." _*kiss*_ "...drew it."

He will keep the sketch she drew him just as she keeps every last sprig and blossom he has brought her pressed in a book in her room. Lovers do these things. These little keepsakes and mementos that they can reflect upon when they are apart.

The thought of being parted makes him uncomfortable. 

“Did you mention me?”

“Yes, I told her that you were helping me become proficient in the care of orchids and that you were quite well versed in botany. What? Are you displeased by that?”

“Only that I worry she will grow suspicious of us.”

“Suspicious of us? I don’t think the thought of you and I being more than she expects would enter Mama’s head.”

She does not mean that cruelly but it still stings to hear. Of course, Lady Stark has no suspicions as of yet. They’ve been careful and no one would ever think Lady Sansa would be carrying on with the undergardener.

“Don’t worry so, my dear Jon.”

How can he worry when she calls him her dear Jon? Or when she leans forward, her lips in a pout and her blue eyes beseeching, begging for another kiss?

They are in the godswood again and it’s been two weeks since that rainy Wednesday when they’d compared the brush of the rosebud to the brush of his lips on hers. She’d preferred his lips and they’ve been doing a good deal of that ever since. They are becoming experts when it comes to kissing.

Her arms are around his shoulders and one of his is looped around her waist as she’s sat in his lap. The hand of his other arm is lower, circling her slender ankle.

The warmth of her, the way she shifts about makes him unquestionably aroused but she does not chide him for it. She says nothing of it in fact, preferring to card her fingers through his hair and leave his lips as swollen and red as he leaves hers.

“A little further,” she tells him today and that hand at her ankle slides up her calf beneath her dress.

He moans into the next kiss when she gently rocks forward in his lap. He is nearly to her knee and she does not mind the insistent poking that her bottom is receiving as their kisses continue. 

“Robb is coming home soon and we will meet his wife,” she murmurs a few minutes later when he’s trailing open-mouthed kisses along her throat.

“He is?”

The new Lord Stark returns with his bride. Does he care? Not as much as he cares about Sansa straddling his thigh and leaning back against his chest now.

“How does your mother feel about that?” She has been the Dowager Countess of Winterfell since the death of her husband two years earlier but the young lord is married now. His wife will be the lady of the estate though Jon can’t imagine Lady Stark suddenly having no hand in things.

“Mama was disappointed by the suddenness of it but hopes that they will…oh, there,” she gasps.

His hand has made it to her knee but he believes it’s his teeth grazing her earlobe that elicited the cry. She does like that.

“I think Robb is very anxious for our good opinion as I’m sure the young lady is.”

“Was it as great a scandal as some of the staff whisper?”

She giggles but he doesn’t know if it’s from knowing that the staff gossips so or that she’s ticklish. “Miss Westerling is a young lady of good family but little fortune. Robb was being pushed towards Walder Frey’s youngest daughter, a girl with a pretty face and very hefty dowry.”

“How hefty?”

“Twenty thousand, I’d heard.”

“Twenty thousand? Is Miss Frey still in want of a husband, do you think?”

At first, she doesn’t catch on to his teasing. Perhaps that is because his fingertips are brushing skin instead of stockings now. Her eyes have darkened as she looks back over her shoulder at him. She shifts in his lap again, a sweet tortuous rush of blood. 

“I-I don’t know if…oh! You’re terrible!” she laughs, giving his arm a swat before he’s back to kissing her again.

His hand stays where it is, resting on her thigh right above her stockings. His thumb gently massages the soft flesh above the silk. This is the farthest he's ever gone. "Sansa...may I...can I touch you? More?" 

“You won't tell anyone, will you?" she whispers, a worried sounding plea.

Who would he tell? None of the others would believe him and her mother would have the constable pick him up. Besides, Jon wouldn't do that to her anyway. 

"Never," he promises, tilting forward to look her in the eye, waiting for her to smile again. "This is just for us." 

"Just for us,” she says breathily as he nibbles at her earlobe once more. "A little further, Jon."

* * *

Ten days later, the young Earl of Winterfell returns, bringing his wife home at last. 

Lady Stark is rumored to be displeased that her son has brought the former Miss Westerling’s two brothers along with them considering this will be the first time she meets her in-laws but no one would know it based on her smile today. 

Jon thinks perhaps Miss Westerling has brought her brothers because she wished for some reinforcements as she meets her mother-in-law. The Westerlings made their money in trade but they are not in funds so much as in former days and they would never be considered equals to the Starks in terms of society (though grander than undergardeners for certain). 

And, while Jon has only witnessed kindness from Lady Stark, he thinks she is unaware of how intimidating a person she might seem to strangers. 

“Everything is in order, Cassel?” Lady Stark asks the butler. 

“Yes, my lady.”

“Mrs. Mordane?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I know I may always rely on all of you,” she says, giving the whole staff a smile before taking her place as a motorcar starts making its way up the winding gravel drive. 

Jon stands near the end of the long line of servants awaiting the lord’s arrival but hears their exchange on the breeze. Old Willem and his boys and the grooms are not always expected to turn up for this but it is a special occasion since the new master has been away for so long. 

He leans forward just enough to catch a glimpse of Sansa standing by her mother’s side. She’s perfect truly standing up straight with her crisp collar, spotless skirt, tidy bun and serene, ladylike smile in place. 

Jon would argue she was even more glorious yesterday afternoon though in the godswood, her hair decorated with little wildflowers he’d placed in it, her clothes far less orderly and that far-off, dreamy look in her eye when she sighed his name. 

Jon stands up straighter as the motorcar rumbles to a stop, curious to see Sansa’s brother for himself which he soon does. Dressed in a dark suit and tie with his dark auburn curls combed back, he helps his wife out, a petite girl with pretty eyes, and introduces her to his mother after he embraces his mother and sisters and clasps hands with his younger brothers. 

The staff all wait, starched and still, to be acknowledged or not. It is entirely at the lord’s discretion though Willem has said that the young man’s father always did.

As greetings are concluding between Stark, his wife and his family, two young men climb out the Rolls. Rollam Westerling is little more than a boy close in age to Brandon Stark and he hurries to his sister’s side as she makes the introduction, appearing even more nervous than she is. The elder brother Raynald discreetly twirls his hat and smiles indulgently at his younger brother before turning to bow to Sansa.

And when he does, his indulgent smile alters into something a bit more…something. Jon cannot hear their conversation but he does not care one bit for the way Westerling takes Sansa’s hand as if he means to kiss it. Of course, he is only being polite. 

_He does not know the softness of her lips nor the taste of her nectar. He has not heard her softly cry his name when he makes her peak either,_ Jon tells himself with a smugness that doesn’t entirely dispel his displeasure. 

But perhaps her brother doesn’t care for Westerling’s manners either for he quickly asks his mother to see his wife and their guests indoors, saying he has invited some other friends recently returned from the Continent to come and stay next week. Westerling is hustled past Sansa without the joy of kissing her hand by Stark and Jon likes him already simply for that reason even if his news of more unexpected guests has turned over a hornet's nest judging by the look in Mordane's eyes. 

The lord then goes down the line to greet his staff just as Willem had said his father would do on such occasions. 

Jon notices that Sansa stays by his side rather than following the others. Is that for him? To avoid the other man? Or both?

“Mother said you’d found some good, reliable help, Willem,” Robb Stark says affably as he shakes Jon’s hand. “I hope you’re settling well with us here at Winterfell, Jon.”

“Yes, my lord,” Jon answers with a respectful nod, telling himself not to stare too blatantly at Sansa when he finishes with, “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

* * *

Like flowers, women blossom best when you listen to what they want, Willem had said. Jon has not forgotten but he is still learning and he’s not immune to jealousy. 

Now that Lord Stark has returned, Jory has his regular duties to attend to on top of seeing to the younger sons. The Westerling gentlemen have brought no servants of their own so Alyn has found himself stepping in to serve as a make-shift valet for the pair. Footmen are scarce on the ground at present with would-be valets running about willy, nilly. Jon is glad he is an undergardener. 

Robb Stark’s friends from the Continent arrived a few days ago; Loras Tyrell and his sister, Margaery. 

Mr. Tyrell is the heir of his father’s industrialist fortune. Someday, the estate they are building down in Surrey (which will be named Highgarden and ever so grand) will be his. They are most certainly considered new money though they’ve got quite a lot of it. 

The Tyrells are a curious pair from what little Jon has observed and heard of them from the others, always whispering together. Their eyes cut from Lady Stark to the young lord to Sansa and back. What are they scheming? Perhaps what a fine thing it might be if they should bind their fortune to an older, well-respected family. 

The one time Jon has seen them together, he's not noticed any particular regard for Sansa from Loras Tyrell. That is all Mr. Westerling. But all the same, the young man is polite towards her and his sister is always buzzing about between them, making witty remarks to cause everyone to laugh together. She seems quite keen for Sansa and her brother to get along. Mr. Tyrell is depressingly handsome, too. 

Of course, Jon's occasions to interact with them would be very limited if not for Robb Stark's longing for a cricket match out on the lawn which means some of the lads being 'invited' to join in and fill the numbers. 

Jon is no great cricketer. He didn't play at Cambridge like Loras Tyrell since he didn't go to Cambridge in the first place. But he's not half bad.

"Well struck, Jon!"

"Thank you, my lord." 

Robb Stark is pleased to have chosen Jon for his side while Loras Tyrell is looking decidedly sour over not having him before attempting to rally his troops. 

Jon turns towards the pavilion where the ladies, barring Lady Arya who is batting now, stand watching. 

"Well done, Jon," Sansa tells him demurely when he helps himself to a refreshment, keeping a proper distance and telling himself not to stare at her the way he wishes to.

"Thank you, my lady." 

"Loras! Loras! Come over here and tell Sansa about that funny cricket match we watched in France," Miss Tyrell shouts, interrupting any hope of them continuing their conversation. 

Sansa turns politely back to her guest and Jon ducks back out from beneath the shade of the pavilion. He is annoyed by the interruption but knows better than to express it. Besides, there stands Willem scowling at the lot of them. Cricket or no cricket, there is still work to do. 

Jon's last sight of Sansa that afternoon is of her still standing between the two Tyrells laughing when Arya runs down Gendry, crowing over her victory for all to hear. Even Gendry does not seem to mind. 

Two days later, Jon's grumbling under his breath when he overhears Hill going on about Mr. Tyrell's engaging manners towards Lady Sansa. Westerling’s still here as well though Hill cruelly laughs that he has little hopes of winning Sansa's attentions away from a fine catch (and bloody dandy) such as Loras. 

_She is not theirs._

_She is not yours either. She is her own person. Her company and her kisses are gifts she gives you freely. She is not a bird in a gilded cage._

These are things he tells himself though his heart most ardently longs to call her his in every conceivable manner. 

Tomorrow is Wednesday and they will have some time alone together at last. He cannot wait.

* * *

Another casualty on the footman front (Desmond came down with a fever last night and was told to keep abed) finds Jon in livery as the dinner hour approaches the next night, clean-shaven, spotless with his collar choking him once more. He is not ill like Desmond but he is not in good spirits either. 

Sansa is the first to arrive just as she had been when the Baratheons were visiting. Is this a usual habit of hers? He thinks it isn’t and perhaps it wasn’t before either. 

She’s in a lovely plum colored gown and saunters over to him since they are alone.

She gives him a kiss and he can tell she wants him to kiss her back like he might ordinarily. Instead, he lets her lips brush the corner of his mouth and busies himself with the glasses Cassel had told him to set out.

She notices. 

“I missed you today.”

“Did you? Seems like you must’ve had a busy day between shooting this morning and riding this afternoon.”

"I did not shoot but Mama asked me to help Jeyne host the luncheon that followed. And of course, I missed you, Jon."

"Not even with Misters Tyrell and Westerling so eager to entertain you in my stead, my lady? I have not been to Paris or Rome like Mr. Tyrell. I have no friends who experiment with aeroplanes like Mr. Westerling. My conversation is quite dull by comparison."

"Jon..."

"Would Surrey suit you some day? I confess I'm not sure I could ever afford a cottage there."

"Jon, please don't. Do you not know I’d rather be with you than…”

A door opens. Cassel has come to check on him. He returns to his glasses, ignoring her outstretched hand. 

“Good evening, my lady.”

“Good evening, Cassel,” she says smoothly, retracting the hand. 

“All set then, Jon?”

“Yes, Mr. Cassel.”

They are not left alone again and he can tell she is frustrated by it. He is as well but busier feeling wounded. 

He’d sat in the godswood all afternoon waiting for her in vain while she was busy riding with her brother, his wife, Raynald Westerling, Loras Tyrell and his sister. He sat alone in the godswood for hours only to learn that she had been riding from Arya who gave him a look of pity. Why wouldn't she pity a fool? He is a fool in love with a woman who can never be his. If they keep this up, they’ll be discovered eventually and it’ll be him who is shown the road.

During dinner though, his stupid jealous heart relents and is sorry to see her looking so downcast, barely touching a bite of Nan’s delicious food. He keeps attempting to catch her eye, to express that he is sorry. It is no good. 

All around them the table is abuzz with discussion about the recent death of Rhaegar Targaryen, the Duke of Dragonstone, and the kerfuffle over his estate. His wife had died years ago, a poor sickly thing, and his son and daughter had perished in April along with fifteen-hundred other souls aboard the _Titanic_. 

But on his deathbed, the duke had told his solicitor and the reverend of a bastard son and made last-minute adjustments to his will. The papers have not learnt the son's name but are rife with interest of who the lucky man may be and if the duke's people will ever find him. 

“A bastard won’t be made a duke,” Raynald Westerling says with an assurance that Jon finds grating. Naturally, he is right. The dukedom will be passed on to Targaryen’s younger brother from the sounds of things. 

“No, but outside of the estate and what is entailed with it, he did possess a rather large personal fortune which he wished to be granted to this son,” Lord Stark clarifies. “More lamb, sweet pea?” he then asks his wife as Tyrell jumps in.

“Not if the brother has any say, it won’t. He’s fighting the will, tooth and nail.”

“But it was his brother’s dying wish,” Lady Stark interjects. “If the duke’s other children were still living, I could see the argument against him suddenly bequeathing a fortune on some…on the other young man but, in this case, I believe…”

The rest of their conversation flows on but Jon’s attention returns to Sansa. When the lemon cakes appear, she does not choose one. She gives him a heartbroken look and begs her family and guests’ pardon.

“I’m terribly sorry but…a sudden headache.” 

She slips from the room as they all give her their well wishes and Jon is left to agonize over whether she is really ill or if he is responsible for her listlessness at dinner with his earlier display of jealousy. Will he ever find out? Must he wait until Sunday to see her alone again? Assuming she will even come to him then. This is misery. 

But just as he is finishing his duties and preparing to leave the house, having no excuse to go to her, Jeyne appears with a sealed note for him.

“From my lady,” she says with a bob of her head.

Is she mad sending Jeyne to him with a note? Hill will know before the cock crows tomorrow morning!

“Thank you,” he says, doing his best to appear baffled. “She has been asking a great many questions about the lemon trees of late.” 

It is a feeble excuse and Jeyne’s eyes tell him she does not believe it but it is something.

It is best he’d attempted it before he opened Sansa’s note though for all good sense leaves him when he reads her words:

_I hated missing our time together this afternoon. They are nothing to me. There is no one I’d rather spend my time with than you. Come to my room tonight if ever you can manage it. Come and kiss me goodnight, my dear Jon._

* * *

Does he find his way to her room?

Of course, he does. He is young and adores her. He may possibly be more rash than he is wise. He is not timid anyway. He would climb mountains for her, fight a war for her. He can manage a flight of stairs and quiet hallway. 

He wonders what might buy Jeyne’s silence though. He has only flowers to offer and those are for his lady. 

“She will not betray us,” Sansa promises when he’s standing before her and speaking his concerns. “She is my friend.”

_Miss Tyrell was rather inquisitive of your friend earlier today, I heard._

He will not say that now, not when Sansa is in his arms with her hair hanging in loose waves and wearing nothing but her nightgown. It covers more of her body than her dinner dress did and yet it is delectably alluring in its attempted innocence, the pure white cotton more diaphanous than one might guess with no corset, garters or stockings underneath.

“Please, Jon…don’t be angry with me.”

Angry with her? How could he ever be so? “I'm not. I wasn't angry with you, my love. I was only madly jealous and I'm so sorry for…”

She draws back and blinks several times. He wets his dry lips. He is caught. He does not care.

“Jealous? And am I truly your love, Jon?”

“I was. You are. I love you, Sansa.”

“You love me?”

“I do…though I know I am no fit-“

Sansa blocks his next words and steals his breath with a searing kiss. 

He breaks it off only long enough to chuckle somewhat darkly and say, “Wasn’t _I_ supposed to kiss _you_ goodnight?" She laughs and he asks, "Will you forgive me for earlier then?"

"Forgive you? There is nothing to forgive." She melts against him in his black coat and toys with his necktie. She’s tucked herself against him and looks coyly up at him from beneath dark red lashes. “No one will disturb us here. What if I wanted more than a goodnight kiss from you?”

His mouth must reside somewhere in the Sahara now it goes so dry. Can she mean what he thinks?

“I would not…what if I…I could not get you…like Bessie.” 

He grows shy trying to voice it. He has no Bessies in his past and he will not be a reverse of his parents’ tale. Sansa being a lady instead of a servant will not decrease her disgrace if it were known and if she were to bear an undergardener’s child. _But it would not be a bastard._ Come hell or high water, he would marry her first. 

She is equally tongue tied but offers, “Is there no way to, um…can it possibly…avoid that?” 

He flushes and recalls a conversation he had with Gendry back when his hand circling Sansa’s ankle while she sat in his lap as they kissed was as far as he had ever gone with a girl. 

_“Who is she?”_ Gendry had asked. 

_“What do you mean?”_

_“The girl you’re always smiling over. The reason you don’t come down to the pub with us no more on Wednesdays.”_

_“Who says that’s to do with a girl?”_ Gendry had given him a wry smile to express his disbelief. _“It’s none of your business, alright?”_

_“Alright, Jon. So long as you don’t wind up like Lew and Palla. They’re always arguing them two.”_

_“We would not argue like them but we’ve not done that. And I would marry her…if she’d have me,”_ he’d finished, sadly.

_“Right. There’s ways to prevent it anyway. Just pull it out of her before you…you know.”_

He had heard that before though from a source he did not trust as well. _“But what if you get to that point before you know it?”_ Once it had happened with Sansa though he’d not admitted it to her. The layers of her dress hid the damp spot he’d left as a result of her writhing upon his lap. It’d been sticky trousers the whole way back to the house though.

_“Well, you’d better know it before that happens. But if your seed don’t land in the girl’s field, to use terms you might understand, no fruit can take root.”_

They’d shared a boyishly coarse laugh over Gendry’s euphemism at the time but now the conversation sends a trill of excitement racing through him. 

He looks at her as she awaits his reply. “There’s ways to decrease the chance but would you truly want that…with me?”

She nods and says, “I do. I love you, too.”

She loves him, too. The kisses that follow are possessive and hungry, even more so than the ones they’ve shared in the godswood. Behind them lies a lovely bed instead of a giant root and damp earth. 

Their acquired finesse of the past weeks fails them in their eagerness. When Jon’s tongue pushes its way into her mouth, her wanton moan only increases his desperation. He devours her as readily as she might devour a lemon cake. 

And she is every bit as hungry for him. She loves _him_. She wants _him_. 

Within, a savage beast roars in triumph. Loras Tyrell is not here with her. No Westerling in-law either. They will never have her. Jon Snow, the undergardener, is in his lady’s room. She is his. He is hers. Tonight is theirs.

Like a dance, they move as one towards the bed as she’s twining one hand through his curls and pawing at that necktie. These are not his clothes and he despises them anyway. He yanks the bowtie off along with the gloves and jacket. Sansa’s eyes darken when she shoves his suspenders over his shoulders. The shirt and trousers follow until he is only in his undershirt and drawers. 

“You next,” he prompts, grinning at her blush before together they whisk her nightgown over her head.

God, she’s perfect. A ripe peach, an exquisite blossom, a testament of the Heavenly Master’s incomparable skill, greater than any work of art created by man’s hand. Temptation in the flesh though her soul is pure. If Salvation means turning away now, let him be damned.

“I love you,” he murmurs before capturing a pert nipple, a lovely little bud, between his lips.

She gasps, cries out, she begs for more. He will give it to her. 

One hand dips between her thighs, finding that other little bud he's lovingly tended before to bring her to her peak. Her honey drips down and he wants to make her toes curl and stars appear before her eyes. He wants to hear her sing his name. He manages it. 

“Jon…Jon…Jon…”

They are completely bare and on the bed before long. When he covers her body with his, sucking a dark bloom on her porcelain skin, he tests that she is wet once more with his finger before he sheaths himself inside that warm heat of her center. She arches her back at the burrowing invasion and attempts to hide her grimace. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, pushing forward as slowly as he can bear to. She is so tight and it feels so good.

“No, no, it’s good,” she swears. He would call her a liar if she didn’t wrap her arms around his neck and look up at him so sweetly. 

“Are you sure, my love?”

She gives him a cheeky smile before rocking her hips in answer. He groans and loses any will he had of holding back. 

They are new to this, their thrusts mistimed initially, but soon they find their way. The soft creaking of the bed, the quiet slaps of flesh on flesh and her alternating gasps and moans only heighten his pleasure in this oneness, this joining of hearts, bodies and souls. 

“Do you like it?” she asks sweetly as that tightening in his balls gives him a warning. 

“I love it. I…I- _uhnnn!”_

Quickly, he pulls out, instantly coating her thighs and mound with his seed. Still, he managed it…he hopes. He gives a shaky, self-conscious laugh as she’s still smiling up at him. 

“Did _you_ like it?” he asks gently after as they are cleaning themselves. He helps her pull her nightgown back over her head. 

“I loved it when you held me close,” she whispers before kissing his cheek and asking for him to hold her for a bit longer. 

She loved being held but not the act itself so much just yet, he realizes. He holds her tightly, his stronger arms wrapped protectively around her. If his seed somehow takes root regardless of his efforts, he will steal her away to marry. “We’ll get better at it. _I’ll_ get better at it,” he promises. 

She grins and nods, her face and neck as red as her hair.

Soon, he must go. He cannot be discovered here. One more kiss goodnight and he’s slipping out of her room well past midnight. 

Willem might raise an eyebrow if he catches Jon stealing back into their quarters this late. He will be quiet as a mouse. He can always claim the dinner party ran long if he's caught. What else do the toffs do but eat, drink, play cards, ride horses, shoot and sleep as late as they please? 

Except one of them is not doing any of those things at the moment. 

At the corner where one would head towards the family rooms or towards the guest quarters right past the stairs, he runs headlong into Miss Margaery Tyrell.

His tie and gloves are shoved in his jacket pockets and his collar is quite undone. Does he flee now? No, he must help her to her feet.

He stammers his apologies, blushing as she gives him a saucy, appraising look.

"You stood behind Loras at dinner."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You are not always a footman though..."

"No, ma'am. I am an undergardener and was merely filling in tonight."

"I thought you seemed preoccupied at dinner but perhaps you were merely unsure of your role."

He gives a noncommittal nod at that. 

Her lips twitch and she proceeds to wonder aloud what a substitute footman has been doing so late upstairs when nearly all the family has already retired. "Was my brother in need of an additional valet tonight?" 

"No, ma'am," he answers, baffled by the question. Mr. Tyrell has a valet. Why would he need another?

"Then, I suppose you were serving someone else."

He does not answer that. She is on her feet again, he has apologized and this is not her business.

"My maid may have turned in already, it is so late. Perhaps you might help me." She lets that linger, her golden brown eyes dancing with mischief and curiosity. 

"Forgive me, ma'am, but I could not. You can ring the bell if you've need of one of the women."

He awkwardly bows to her then before bolting for the stairs.

Her amused laughter follows him but she cannot know where exactly he has been and with whom...can she?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little heads up for some attempted blackmail/coercion as the Tyrell siblings range from questionable motives to downright dastardly in this chapter :)
> 
> I've been plugging away at this chapter off and on for days and I'm not entirely sure I'm satisfied with it but I'm also tired of looking at it so here we go...

In spite of his uncomfortable run-in with Miss Tyrell and his concerns over Jeyne telling tales, Jon isn’t really thinking of any of that when he wakes. He’s too busy remembering the best part of his night.

_The best part of my bleeding life, you mean._

Honestly, he cannot stop grinning. 

_I made love to Sansa last night. She loves me and I love her._

His smile only dims long enough to wonder how she is this morning, praying she does not regret taking such an enormous step outside the bounds of what's considered proper and hoping that she has not experienced any lasting discomfort. He wishes he had a way of conveying a message to her. Perhaps Lady Arya… 

Deciding to look into that later, he rises for his day.

Willem gives him a look over their morning porridge and asks how long he was kept up at the house serving last night.

“It was late. After midnight, I reckon.”

“You look tired, lad. You ain’t caught Desmond’s fever, have you?”

“I am a little tired but I’m feeling tip-top overall, Willem." 

Yes, quite tip-top. Her beautiful body, her loving smiles. The release was exquisite. How soon might he experience it again? He _hopes_ Sansa wants to experience it again sometime soon. He is sated and lusty both. 

His chest expands as he draws a deep breath, jerking his chin towards the window. "The song birds are quite melodious this morning, aren't they?” He cannot help humming along for half a second.

“Oh, it's not the sort of fever I feared then. I can see that plain as day now,” the old man says, chuckling mysteriously. 

Nan gives him that same long look when she comes out to oversee his progress on her vegetable patch a short time later. He’s sowing broad beans for a winter harvest before heading off to his next task for the day. 

It’s a beautiful morning with the sun shining. He’s back in his regular clothes again and outside where he is happiest. Alright, he has another place where he’s happiest. It’s wherever Sansa is.

“What’s that you’re whistling, Jon Snow?” The suspicious way she asks makes Jon glad she’s not got that wooden spoon of hers handy. 

Also, had he been whistling aloud? Good God, he had. He feels his cheeks grow warm. “Um…it’s ‘By the Light of the Silvery Moon,’ Nan.”

“Hmmm.” She reminds him of a constable or police inspector with the way she tilts her head to the side and observes him. 

“Is everyone up at the house well this morning?” he asks. He is just being friendly. He’s not at all uncomfortable at this scrutiny and babbling nervously because of it. _No, no, not me. I am an oak._

“Aye, Desmond’s still abed but the rest are well enough.”

“And the family is well? The ladies and the, um...others?”

“I believe so but I ain’t seen ‘em being as I’m always below stairs seeing to the cooking.” 

“Right. I just figured the young ladies would’ve come down to breakfast and you might’ve…” Those old eyes sharpen and Jon returns to turning over the soil with his spade. He really needs to learn to shut it more often.

“ _Unmarried_ young ladies do come down to breakfast, that they do…unless they’re feeling poorly.” Her emphasis on ‘unmarried’ makes him feel guilty but he is also earnestly hoping Sansa is well. His fears are eased when Nan continues. “But Jeyne came down to fetch the blouse from the wash room that her lady wanted to wear today so I’d say Lady Sansa is well enough to come down for breakfast.”

“Oh…well, that’s good,” he says as if it matters not to him. “And did Jeyne have any news to share or..."

"I ain't got time to listen to that silly girl's prattle."

"Quite right, quite right. Are the Westerling gentlemen still leaving tomorrow?” 

That had been briefly discussed in the drawing room after dinner last night before Jon had received Sansa’s note. They’d droned on about that dead duke some more as Jon had been lighting cigars, emptying ashtrays and in utter agony wishing to see Sansa and tell her he was sorry but having no knowledge that he’d get that opportunity later. 

The one bit that had caught his ear was the news of when the new Lady Stark’s brothers would be going home. Jon looks forward to seeing the back of Raynald Westerling. Even if his lady cares nothing for him, it is clear the man would like to court her.

“As far as I know. Perhaps you could ask Mr. Cassel or Mordane if you’re so keen to know the comings and goings above stairs. Hill, Megette, Little Miss Jeyne Poole and that Lew would fill your ears will all manner of tales as well, I’m sure, but I don’t know how any of that is more important to an undergardener than sowing beans in my vegetable patch.”

“I…” He is flushing again. “I was merely asking.”

Nan rests her wrinkled hand on his shoulder and squats down, bringing her face close to his. “Aye, you were merely asking and you’re a good lad…but you be careful, Jon Snow. She’s a dear girl and it would wound my heart to see her hurting but those of us closest to the dirt are always the ones who wind up getting stomped into the mud in the end. I don’t want that for you, sweet boy. Watch where those seeds of yours are going, too,” she adds, glancing at the ground. 

His flushing ends abruptly. All the blood has drained from his face. “I’m…I wouldn’t…I’ll be careful,” he promises. 

She pats his cheek and rises once more. Is it stenciled upon his forehead or something? 

“My learning never went much past being able to read receipts and write out supply needs but I’ve lived a long life and seen a lot of things. I know things even clever little lords and ladies don’t,” Nan says, chuckling as if she has indeed read his mind. 

The warning is well meant, he knows, and he will heed it but they are young and in love. And, it only takes a glimpse of Lady Sansa out for a stroll through the hedge maze with her mother and sister-in-law an hour later to have him soaring again. 

She falls a step behind the others to give him a shy wave and secret smile as she passes by. God, it's the most heady rush though it seems strange, this distance they must keep, considering what happened between them last night but that is how it is. 

Regardless, he’s back to smiling at everyone and everything because of it when he’s pulling weeds outside the carriage house which has been renovated in recent years to house the Starks’ motorcar. 

In addition to the Rolls, there is a flashy new Renault Coupe de Ville parked within belonging to Loras Tyrell. Harwin, the Stark's chauffeur, has been annoyed by its presence taking up extra space but everyone suspects it’s more that he regrets being forced to share his quarters in the loft above with Mr. Tyrell’s driver, Olyvar. 

Olyvar is as flash in his own way as the car. London born and bred, he thinks he’s a dozen times cleverer than anyone at Winterfell.

None of this matters to Jon though, he’ll be leaving when his employer does, hopefully soon, and undergardeners have little need to interact with chauffeurs if they don't wish to.

Jon’s finishing up with his weeding, his mind full of Sansa, when Mr. Tyrell unexpectedly approaches. 

“Oh hello again, Jon,” he says, affably. “I see you’re hard at it, bright and early. Very good, very good.”

Early? Its nearly time for his noonday meal. “Yes, sir,” he replies with a polite nod. He’s even smiling at him for God’s sake. 

But unlike Raynald Westerling, Jon is becoming more convinced that Mr. Tyrell has no sincere interest in Sansa and Jon’s inclined to smile at everyone today, it seems. _I'd bow to the Devil himself or his mistress at the very least, I fear._

They exchange a few more pleasantries and Mr. Tyrell particularly asks after the lemon trees in the Glass Garden which are naturally quite dear to Jon. A surprisingly passionate discussion with regards to citrus fruits and arboriculture follows. He really isn’t such a bad fellow one on one this way. 

Olyvar comes out having heard Mr. Tyrell’s voice and is informed that the young gentleman and Miss Margaery wish to go to town this afternoon together and he’s asking that the car be brought ‘round in an hour.

Olyvar tips his cap in acknowledgement as Tyrell turns his attentions back to Jon. 

“A gardener, substitute footman and excellent batsman at cricket…is there anything you can’t do, Jon?” he asks with an engaging smile. 

Jon’s flushing again but differently than with Nan. He’s as susceptible to some praise as the next person, he supposes. “Quite a lot I can't, sir, but I do enjoy cricket and gardening suits me very well.”

“Perhaps we’ll have to steal you away to Highgarden someday once it’s complete, make you our head gardener there perhaps, eh?”

He gives him a chug on the shoulder as the breath seems to have left Jon’s lungs. Mr. Tyrell then smiles and heads back towards the house as Jon is still standing there slack-jawed. To be the head gardener of a grand estate has been chief among his wildest dreams for four years at least. And to be head gardener at such a young age, it would be nearly unheard of. Of course, his dreams have expanded some since Sansa came into his life.

“Well, you’re all set then,” Olyvar sneers.

“I beg your pardon?” Jon asks, not knowing why the man looks so sour now. 

“Lucky you, Mr. Loras taking a shine to you and all.” He looks Jon up and down critically and sniffs as if he finds him lacking somehow. “You've a pretty face I 'pose with a laborer's physicality. Don’t expect it to last though. He gets bored with the likes of us fairly quick and moves on.”

Pretty? What the hell is that about? “I don’t understand.”

Olyvar starts chuckling. “Oh me, you’re as dumb as the rest of this lot even with that book learning of yours. Ain’t you never read about them ancient Greeks and their proclivities, mate?” 

He winks and Jon catches his drift at last. “I have work to do,” he says gruffly and strides away from the amused chauffeur. He does not care what Mr. Tyrell’s proclivities are but he doesn’t like what Olyvar is implying. He is not interested in being an amusement of that nature for either Tyrell. 

And he is left wondering if perhaps that's why Miss Tyrell seems so keen for her brother and Sansa to get along.

* * *

It is Sunday and this is called the godswood. He supposes it is only right to call upon God when he's here.

_Just maybe not quite like this._

“Oh God…oh God…Sansa…”

It is something divine though. The way she fits him like a glove, how their bodies connect, face-to-face, heart-to-heart, arms wound around one another as their eyes drink each other in.

He is determined to get better at this but this is only the second time he's worshipped at her alter and, when she whimpers ‘yes, yes, yes’ and wraps her long legs around his waist, he is still undone all too quickly.

“Goddamn.” He jerks his hips back hurriedly to avoid spilling inside her, his heart thundering away. 

He collapses and feels a huff of hot air on his neck. He’s ashamed because he knows that she was close to finding her own peak. He should not smile knowing that except it felt so unbelievably good.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters when he can meet her eyes again.

There is no lingering censure beyond that frustrated huff though. That is not Sansa. “Don’t be sorry. It felt nice and there was...earlier.” 

"Yes...earlier," he repeats, giving her a grin. She blushes so prettily. Neither of them have a name for his explorations from earlier. He'd just longed to kiss her, to kiss her everywhere. "You liked that, did you?"

She gives him a playful shove. "I would've thought that was a bit obvious."

Yes, it was. She'd clutched at his hair and sang out his name so sweetly as he'd lapped at her nectar, his nose buried in her lovely curls. He would like to see her peak while he's inside of her though. 

_But then I likely will as well and then I'll just have to carry her off to Scotland and marry her. What a shame that would be._

Would she ever marry him? He likes to tell himself she would but he knows the bitter realities of their world too well to believe it. 

She strokes his face, kisses the tip of his nose and smiles as he pulls the blanket he's brought around them both more securely. Autumn has arrived and there’s a fresher nip in the air.

He’s sleepy after his peak and wishes they were tucked away in a bed somewhere instead of here in the open where they cannot linger for long. This is enough of a risk to run. He wishes they could be completely bare together again like that first time but obviously that wouldn’t be wise. Even with the blanket though, the hard ground is not all that pleasant once passion no longer clouds their rational minds.

They share a little sweetness though, him holding her close, asking her to sing for him a bit. It's lovely really though spending an entire day this way in their own little cottage would please him even more.

"I wish we had a place to do this without being outdoors," she says, echoing his thoughts. 

They are of the same mind then. "There's that empty cottage beyond the hedge maze."

"The dowager's cottage? Yes, that's true," she says, smiling. "But someday, that might be Mama's residence...not that I think she'll leave the house anytime soon." 

He doesn't like thinking of her family right now. It makes him feel guilty sneaking around this way. An honorable man would declare his intentions and court her properly. _But they would never allow such as you to court a lady such as her._

"Jon..." she says, drawing him from unhappy thoughts. "Do you think you might wish to...again?" She strokes his arm and is flushing again. His cock is immediately growing hard. 

"That would be my pleasure, my lady," he says, nipping at her neck. "Come here."

Are they mad to run these risks? Oh yes...madly in love and so very young. 

And all things considered, Jon's more than willing to be a betting man when he encourages Sansa to get on top of him, letting his back feel the roots and rocks beneath the blanket and allowing her the opportunity to find the rhythm and angle that suits her best. 

The afternoon is fading when she collapses on him this time, breathless and glorious, with that beautiful red hair spilling all around them. 

He will definitely learn to hold out if it means watching that again. Still...

"Forgive me," he mutters, rolling them swiftly so he can finish outside of her. 

He catches a glimmer of disappointment when he does so but it's gone just as quickly. 

As the afternoon begins to fade, he helps her get her clothes back in order after his trousers are pulled back up and his suspenders are in place once more. 

“Miss Tyrell hasn’t said anything about that night then?” he asks, picking back up their conversation from earlier before they’d realized they were good and alone for the first time since Wednesday night.

The Westerling gentlemen have left but the Tyrells stubbornly remain. Despite Mr. Tyrell's suggestion of a position at the in-progress Highgarden some day (if it was a sincere offer and not what Olyvar was hinting), Winterfell is truly the only place Jon wishes to be. He doesn't want anything to spoil that. 

“No, not a thing. Jeyne knows nothing beyond I sent her to you with a note. I do not think we have to worry.”

He worries though. He thinks she does, too. She just prefers to pretend otherwise. 

Either way, their worries don’t seem to stop them any from carrying on, do they? Twice in one afternoon. He'll be insufferably chipper all day tomorrow. 

She threads her fingers through his as he sits upon the large root with her in his lap again. “Jon? Do you ever dream of going somewhere else? Of living another kind of life?”

He swallows hard for this is painful. It feels too much like an admittance of things that cannot be. “I do…though I think I would still like to have a garden to tend.”

“Mama tends her roses because she enjoys it.”

 _Your mother does not have to worry about where her next meal is coming from either_. He will not say that. He nods and lets her speak her mind.

“I should like to. I would leave their expectations far behind. That sounds like something my sister would say, doesn’t it?”

“A little.”

“But I don’t want to be like her exactly. I want to be myself except…free.” She looks self-conscious the next moment. “You probably think I’m silly saying that. I am a free person and instead I'm behaving like a poor little rich girl whingeing on as if she’s somehow oppressed by the prospect of making a match that suits her family.”

“I would never think you silly, Sansa.” 

Her eyes cloud with tears. “I don't want the same things I did when I was younger. Those things they say I'm supposed to want don't matter anymore. It’s you I want, only you. Why should that be wrong?”

His own eyes well up. “It shouldn’t be…and I feel the same way about you.”

“We could run away.”

_To what? To me with no employment and little more than pocket change to my name and you to disgrace and poverty. I could not bear to see you grow to hate me for it._

“Where will we go?” he asks, hoping to lighten the tone. 

But she has no answer. 

Instead, she gasps.

“What?” She slides from his lap and he rises, looking around.

“I thought I saw someone behind that tree there,” she says, pointing. 

He hurries over but there is no one. He tries to shrug it off but the gate has been left open. Jon is certain he closed it behind him when he entered. The old iron hinges make a racket unless you're very slow opening them. He could've sworn he'd caused them to shriek open and closed earlier. 

"There's no one," he says, returning to Sansa who is tucked behind the ancient tree like a wood nymph. "It's alright, love," he reassures, for he cannot bear seeing her so fretful. He kisses her hand and wraps an arm around her waist. "Let's get you back to the house. The hour grows late." 

She's smiling when they part at the godswood gate. He is sure to close it firmly behind them as they go. He feels sick at his stomach and knows he will not relish one bite of his supper. 

* * *

In the hours that follow, he is constantly on edge. 

Someone saw them. 

If it were her mother, he would’ve already been sent away. 

If it were her brother, he would probably have been punched in the jaw first.

If it was a servant, it depends on how they feel about him and her. 

Willem would give him an earful but Jon doesn’t think he’d rat him out. Same goes for Nan…except he’d get a whack with that wooden spoon first. Hill would’ve run straight to Lady Stark. Gendry would probably congratulate him in secret. 

But as the hours pass and nothing happens, he begins to relax slightly. He goes about his work the next morning, feeling more and more confident that he had actually neglected to close the gate and Sansa had merely imagined seeing someone.

Until he sees Sansa hurrying towards him in the Glass Garden with tears in her eyes and quite uncaring for the spectacle it makes since he is not alone.

“Willem, I’d like to speak with Jon for a moment alone, if you please,” she says, sniffling.

Willem’s bushy eyebrows climb to the top of his forehead before he’s giving Jon a look of total shock. Even so, he’s been in service too long to say anything except, “Of course, my lady.”

Jon sets down the buckets full of water he’s carried from the godswood and follows her to the stone bench near where the orchids grow…where first he kissed her lips.

She’s bending, threatening to snap like a young sapling coated with ice under the weight of whatever is distressing her so. It’s too soon for her to have any inkling of it if he’s not managed to keep from getting her with child so they must’ve been seen. His stomach quivers and his fingers feel tingly with nervous tension. 

He holds her close. He must protect his sweet girl from this wicked world though he knows he’ll need protecting, too. 

“Tell me,” he says gently after she’s buried her face in the crook of his neck and had a quick cry. 

“Margaery asked if I would take a ride into town with her today.”

Oh, this is not good.

“She was perfectly pleasant the whole time but then, on the way back in Mr. Tyrell’s car, she whispered that she’d seen us in the godswood yesterday.”

“Seen us?” he repeats dumbly, ready to retch back up his breakfast. 

“Yes.” Her voice is a pitiful whine. “And not just us sitting together and kissing. She saw us...when I was on top of you and...” 

Her face is bright red. His is too but not with shame. It’s more like wrath.

But, God Above, if she said this in the Tyrell’s car, that means Olyvar likely overheard. Some toffs act as if their servants are deaf and dumb but that’s not true at all. And if a servant hears a juicy morsel like that, he or she is bound to tell others. They will be the talk of the estate by sundown.

“She acted like she was my friend and understood but, when I begged her not to repeat it, she said she had my best interests at heart and worried what might happen if we were discovered. She then said very plainly that she might hold her tongue on the condition that I…”

“That you what?”

“She suggested that if I were to agree to an engagement with her brother that there would be no need to worry about any vicious rumors that might circulate regarding the three of us. I’m not sure why there would be rumors about Mr. Tyrell.” 

Well, Jon’s starting to figure out why. 

“She even hinted that you could come and work for them down in Surrey at some point and that we might carry on if we’d be discrete.” 

Her sweet face crumples up in shame and misery. If she were standing before him right now, Jon might be tempted to strangle the life out of Miss Margaery Tyrell the same way he’d attack a patch of Japanese knotweed if it dared to infest his garden.

“I want you, Jon, but not like that. I don’t want to be Lady Baratheon carrying on with her manservants and still expected to allow Lord Robert to come to her bed when he pleases and…I’d rather die.”

“Hey now,” he says softly, stroking her cheek. “We won’t be talking like that.” 

His lady will not be shamed like this. She will not be forced into some wretched unhappy marriage where she can either swallow her tears and deny her heart or offend God by defying his commandment regarding adultery. 

“Whatever she saw, it is her word against ours. Did you explicitly confess anything?”

“No, I…” Her expression clears somewhat. “I was too shocked to say anything beyond begging her not to speak of it.”

“Good.” He doesn’t want Sansa to have to lie but a lie is better than letting that scheming bitch have her way. “Now, what we’ll do is…”

“Neither of you will do a thing until this is explained to me,” another voice says sharply from behind him.

He knows that voice though he’s never heard such venom in it. 

“Mama,” Sansa whispers. 

He turns to see Lady Stark with a basket of freshly cut roses tucked under her arm…and ice in her eyes. 

* * *

Within the hour, a weeping Sansa has been swept back up to the house with Jon left in their wake feeling helpless and frustrated until Willem comes up asking what's what. 

Within that same hour, Mr. Loras Tyrell and his sister tell their servants to pack their things at once, that they are leaving Winterfell. Mr. Tyrell has mentioned unexpected business but this is not believed and the whole matter is widely discussed in whispers amongst the staff. 

Jon wonders what else is being discussed among them. Everywhere he turns, he’s being stared at with frank curiosity and uncertainty. He’s not been told to pack his things yet but it’s coming, he knows. 

Lady Stark is not one to be trifled with as even her son, the lord of this estate, knows. All it had taken was few words apparently spoken in that son’s ear for Lord Stark to tell his newly made friends from his trek on the Continent that they are no longer welcome in his home and that they might have a care when it comes to spreading malignant and false gossip if they ever hope to be accepted into good society anywhere in Britain where the Stark name is held in high esteem.

Before the sun sets, Jon will receive his own summons. 

He’s been sitting in his quarters for the past half hour. Poor Old Willem's having kittens over all this and has told him to knock off early. He's staring at the note she wrote him begging him to come and kiss her goodnight along with the lemon trees she’d sketched. Are these and the memories all he is to have of her? It cannot be so. He loves her too much to let her go so easily. 

Did his father ever feel this way about his mother? Jon can’t believe he did or, if he thought he loved her, it was never the same way Jon loves Sansa. He had her and cast her aside. Jon can’t do that. If he is to be cast aside, that will be Sansa’s choice. 

_And if she should want me to remain?_

He will not leave quietly.

 _But that will only get you in the nick._

Nan had been too right. Those closest to the dirt are the ones who get stomped into the mud. Sansa's reputation will be obliterated if their affair becomes common knowledge in addition to her personal heartache. But he might face not only lack of employment but criminal charges if Lady Stark is a vengeful woman. And who would take his side over theirs? No one, that's who. 

He pulls out the letter his mother had written upon her deathbed. He whispers to her ghost that he’s sorry if she is ashamed of how he’s behaved. “I love her, don’t you see, Mum? Maybe we could’ve helped the way it happened but I love her and she loves me and there’s no going back from here if only…if only they’ll let me stay.”

He traces his mother’s handwriting. Her usual elegant penmanship had suffered from her illness. A tear or two plops onto the paper. He must be careful of marring the ink. He starts to open the letter but hesitates. What’s he looking for? Some wonderous news that his father wasn’t a selfish, dishonorable arse after all and that Jon was always meant to be a secret prince? This is not a fairytale. 

Figuring nothing in the letter could hurt him any more than the prospect of losing Sansa, he starts to open it anyway but lays it down again when the door opens. 

“Jon…they want to see you up at the house now, lad.”

He thanks Willem and goes for what else is he to do? He is merely their employee to be dismissed when they say. 

He tries to be brave but he is trembling as he draws closer to that enormous house. He is afraid. He’s not sure what to expect but he’s growing more and more convinced they’ll fix it to where he can never see Sansa again. 

He’s half blind with the tears he’s refusing to let fall now when he reaches the front of the house. Why did he come this way? He should’ve used the servant’s entrance. He wouldn’t have run straight into the tall gentleman in a black suit like a nincompoop if he’d gone the way he was supposed to either.

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“Quite alright, young man,” the gentleman replies, dusting off his hat and giving Jon a smile. “Chin up, lad. It’s a lovely evening out,” he says next as he rings the bell. 

Jon stands back with his hands shoved in his pockets as the gentleman gives his card to Cassel, declaring that he is a solicitor from London and wishes to speak with Lord Stark if he is at home or the butler if he is not.

“I have the honor of holding the post of butler in this house, Mister, um...Dayne,” Cassel replies, taking the man’s cane and coat, "but I will see if Lord Stark will receive you first." He then spies Jon loitering in the doorway. “Oh, there you are, Jon. Come in and close the door, will you?” 

Jon steps inside, doing as Mr. Cassel instructs. 

He’s never really paid much heed to the house before, only acknowledging superficially that it is a grand one. It’s an old home, has been in the Stark family for generations. He's struck by how very grand it is now. Polished brass and silver, marble and mahogany, he could never afford such wealth. He can never give her the life she was born to. He looks up at the stained glass window above the first landing of the grand staircase. None of this will ever be his. How could he ever believe he belonged here? 

Mr. Cassel bustles off and soon returns, escorting the caller towards Lord Stark's study before he returns again. “Come along then, Jon.” 

He’d originally expected it to be Cassel or even Robb Stark who would deal with him. That is not to be.

She is every inch a lady. Nan has said there's more of her in Lady Arya than one would think at first glance but he sees none of Arya's carefree spiritedness in the woman before him now. Her eldest daughter resembles her in more than looks though. There's her perfect posture and grace but also the ease with which she shoulders her many cares even as a widow. 

_'Leave Lady Catelyn's daughters be as well,'_ Willem had warned him the day they'd met. 

_I'm sorry but I could not._

She's wearing a tweed skirt and grey blouse with her dark auburn hair pulled back in a respectable bun when he’s ushered into her parlor, holding his cap in his hands.

“You wished to speak with me, my lady?”

She’s writing a letter, the pen scratching across the paper. She’s so busy she cannot even dismiss him without doing something else. That rankles some.

“Yes, Jon. Close the door." He does and turns back to her. "I suppose you know why you’re here?” she says, laying her pen down and giving him her full attention. Those blue eyes are sharp and yet so like her daughter’s. Now, he's wishing she’d return to her letter. 

“Yes, my lady.”

The door opens and closes again the next moment. He feels her cool, smooth hand slipping into his. His heart thuds heavily in his chest, swelling with his love and hurts. Yet, he is comforted by her presence. 

“Mama, I love him. You cannot do this.” Christ, she is magnificent, so defiant and ready to do battle for their love. 

Lady Stark rolls her eyes and looks weary. “Sansa, we have been through this. He cannot remain on the staff here if he is dallying about with my daughter under my own roof.”

Sansa huffs and looks ready to stamp her foot in irritation and the most insane urge to laugh assails him. Perhaps it's because it reminds him of their meeting by the pond with her enormous hat and the errant breeze.

Her next words though have him gasping like any old spinster might. 

“It was only one time here in the house and we are not children!" 

No they are not children but did she really just admit to having intimate relations with him to her mother?! Jon has never imagined a moment when he might wish to swoon but this is coming damn near close. 

"And you needn't worry about what we do for when we marry we can...that is…” Sansa bites at her lips and looks at him imploringly. “That is if you would be willing to have me even as I am and…”

Willing to have her? Can she doubt that he wouldn't want her always? 

“Sansa..." he says, sinking to his knees and clasping her hands in his, "I’ll marry you tomorrow if it could be arranged but would you truly take me as I am?” 

That is the sticky point. Does she realize everything she might be sacrificing by becoming his wife? Will she fling herself headlong into this and regret it tomorrow? Next week? A year from now? 

Lady Stark clears her throat meaningfully. “Get off your knees, young man." 

He complies though reluctantly. He wishes to hear Sansa's answer. He's not to hear it yet. 

"Would you still be willing to marry my daughter even if I told you not a single pound of her dowry would be coming your way?”

"Mama! You cannot-"

“Yes, my lady.” 

“Even if you would both be asked to leave our home and never darken our door again?”

“Yes, my lady,” he answers though he is growing angry now. 

“She would be the wife of a servant with no place and no reference, facing a life of poverty, mocked by society. Would you raise my grandchildren in potential squalor just to have her?”

Sansa’s own blue eyes harden. “You would be that cruel, Mother? Does my happiness mean so little to you?”

He hates to see his lovely girl so wounded. How could this woman he had been growing to admire treat her daughter thusly? Is it all pride and appearance with them? She was ready to give her blessing to a marriage between Sansa and Joffrey, a beast in the making, but she’ll disinherit her for marrying a humble man who loves her more than his own immortal soul?

Lady Stark blanches at her daughter's questions but does not answer. Perhaps that is its own answer. 

"I can only give her every part of me I have to give, my lady. I am not a wealthy man and never expect to be but I will love her and I will work my fingers to the bone to provide for her and any children we might have. I will cherish her...and I will _listen_ to what she wants," he adds for Sansa's benefit. "To me, she will always be a free woman who can make her own choices in life. If she'll have me...I am hers and we will face our hardships together." 

“I will have you," Sansa says with the tears slipping down her cheeks. "I love you. I am not afraid of our future so long as it lies together. We will set out at once if need be.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Lady Stark says, rising from her seat and coming to them. There are tears in her eyes now. “I would never cast you out, Sansa. Do you not know I’d fight a war with one arm tied behind my back for my children?” A relieved sob escapes from her daughter as the older woman turns to face him. "I'm very sorry for the harshness of my words but I wished to test your devotion to my daughter. After being so mistaken with regards to her last suitor, I could not agree without assuring myself that it was truly her you wanted and not her money. I hope you will forgive me, Jon." 

It was a harsh test but he has known harsher. “I can forgive you, my lady.” _Eventually_. Oh, he will, he knows. Aren't mothers their most dangerous when they think they're protecting their young? 

The two women embrace as Jon is slowly coming to realize he's not getting sacked. Or maybe he still is. Lady Stark had said he couldn't work here if he's dallying about with her daughter. He definitely plans to keep dallying about with her daughter. But the main thing is, he's not being forbidden from being with Sansa. 

Lady Stark wipes her eyes and laughs nervously. “I am not saying this is not shocking and I’ll admit it was not something that I had foreseen with Sansa. Arya maybe but…well, it is what it is and we will make the best of it. You deserve a good man who will love you and appreciate you for who you are, my sweet one.”

The tension in the room has been dropping so quickly, Jon thinks he's wandered into some happy stage production when the door opens again. The play is about to get more interesting. There is Lord Stark eyeing him with the solicitor from London at his back. Perhaps he will wind up punched in the jaw after all. 

“Mother, this is Mr. Arthur Dayne from London. He was the solicitor of the late Duke of Dragonstone.”

“Ladies,” the man says with a bow.

Before any more greetings or introductions are made, Robb Stark turns to him again. “Jon, I’m not sure what has brought you up here to the house this evening but your timing is most fortuitous.” 

* * *

His hands are trembling again. He’d gone to fetch it but couldn’t find the courage to open it alone. Does he want this confirmed? He does but it's also frightening. 

Willem had worriedly asked if he was well. He’d nodded absently and fled again. He’d needed Sansa by his side. 

“Go on,” she prods gently as he holds up the letter.

There are others in the room. Lord Stark and Mr. Dayne along with Lady Stark. Lady Arya has wandered in having noticed Hill with her ear pressed against the parlor door. She shooed her away at least.

He breaks the seal and opens the letter. A very faint whiff of the lavender oil she always used escapes as he unfolds the letter and tears momentarily blur his vision. He wipes them away and reads his mother's words. 

_My dearest Jon,_

_I am sorry to be leaving you earlier than I would’ve liked but I hope you will know many joyous days in the years ahead and that they will outnumber your sorrowful ones._

_Forgive me for never divulging the name of your father to you before but the mention of him caused me great pain for a long while when I would remember our affair and all his empty promises that amounted to nothing after it was ended. And then, as time passed, I grew to fear offending him. I could not bear the thought of losing you and what if he should one day decide he wished to claim you? No one would’ve stopped him and I would’ve been destroyed by it far more completely than this illness could ever manage._

_I have lived between two worlds for many years now, above stairs and below, as a servant and as a gentleman’s daughter. It has been my honor to care for the precious children of others so I hope you know I do not regret my lot in life. I have loved all of them but nothing could compare to my love of you, my darling boy._

_So, before I pass from this life and when you are ready to read this, I will tell you the truth. Like me, you might find yourself straddling two worlds someday if circumstances ever allow for your father’s name is Rhaegar Targaryen and he is the Duke of Dragonstone..._

He passes the letter to Sansa not quite ready to read more. Sansa quickly reads it and then is by his side with her head upon his shoulder when the letter is passed along to Mr. Dayne. 

“What are you thinking, my love?” she asks.

“I hardly know what to think or believe.”

It’s too true. He is the son of a duke. A bastard son though. No one will call him ‘Your Grace’ and he will not inherit some grand estate. He is not bothered by that. He's lived his life among the upper class but never been part of them. He will always be a gardener at heart, he's sure. 

Still, it’s a raw feeling, suddenly having the rug pulled out from under you and being informed that there was always more to the story than you ever could've guessed. He's teetering somewhere between an emotional withdrawal and a depressive mood but his lady knows him fairly well by now. 

“I still contend he was a wretched man to treat your mother that way who could not buy his honor for fifty thousand pounds. But I suppose adjusting his will on his deathbed so that you might inherit his one hundred thousand pounds might be one mark in his favor…just one though,” Sansa whispers wryly in his ear.

The others are growing vocal as the contents of the letter are shared, amazed and delighted on his behalf. 

He shifts to face her and her eyes grow wide. “Oh, sweet Jon…I hope I have not offended you with my silly jest or-”

Offended him? He throws his head back and laughs, his desire to withdraw and brood quite squashed while cutting off her anxious flow. He then kisses her fully on the lips in front of the ladies, Lord Stark and Mr. Dayne. He hears a startled gasp that sounds suspiciously like Hill. He does not care. He’s going to marry this girl and that is what matters to him more than anything else. 

* * *

**Epilogue-1919**

Nearly seven years have passed since that period between late summer and early autumn when Lady Sansa Stark fell irrevocably in love with Jon Snow, the undergardener.

Was it the day they met when he fetched her hat from the pond that she fell in love? 

He was quite fetching with his lopsided grin, easy wit and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows but it was not then. 

Was it the night he came to her aid so fearlessly, looking remarkably dashing in a footman’s livery and not caring that he might invoke the wrath of a rich and powerful man’s son to save her from his unwanted advances? 

Perhaps not though Sansa would say attraction was already present and affection was already forming that early on even. 

From the start, she admired his wits and good sense. Even when he might grow sharp-tongued, she did not mind for she saw that he had a mind and a will of his own, something far too many of her former circle seem to forget. 

But it was over the course of those quiet talks in the godswood where they would bear their souls to one another that she grew to love him wholly though. 

As much as she loves her family and the dear servants she has known all her life, she never felt heard with them the way Jon hears her. 

Do they always agree? Of course not. But they are always willing to hear each other out. In him, Sansa would say she's found the other half of her soul, the companion she longed for in the good, steady young man by her side. 

She came to desire him in a way she has never desired any other man during their sweet guessing game with flowers. To this day, she still recalls the way her heart clenched and her loins knotted up with longing when first he stroked her cheek with soft flower petals as her eyes were closed. It was intoxicating and, whether it was right or wrong to act as they did, she fell. She fell so very much in love with him. 

The unexpected wealth from his late father's estate and acknowledgement of his paternity made their acceptance in society far easier than it might’ve been otherwise but Sansa still affirms that she would’ve married him as Jon Snow the undergardener even if it meant taking his name without a pound between them. 

She recalls with a smile that particular evening, of Jon returning to the house with his belongings to be put up in the guest wing for the time being and wearing his best coat, which he later confessed was the only one he owned, and coming down to the drawing room before dinner. He’d been so self-conscious in light of all the surprised looks from the household staff and Sansa’s younger brothers and she'd hurried to his side with a warm smile and remained there. 

Mr. Dayne had stayed for dinner, sharing how he’d hunted high and low for Lyanna Snow’s son before a lucky stroke had led him north to Winterfell. 

_“If the papers had got hold of his name, I would’ve had would-be Jon Snows coming out of the woodwork to make their claim,”_ the man had chuckled.

Probably so.

Each subsequent test, each time he was forced to mingle with 'the toffs' as he still refers to them under his breath, was never something he enjoyed but he has managed with Sansa by his side, always ready to ease the way in any manner she can, determined to help him learn how to straddle these two worlds as his mother had said he might one day have to. He often says it was only because of her he's managed so well. She thinks he does not give himself enough credit. 

Jon’s uncle, Viserys Targaryen, was an unpleasant man but he'd been convinced by his younger sister to accept the law court’s decision regarding their brother’s desire to do right by his natural son at last. It was causing such a stir in the papers and making Rhaegar look bad and even dukes dread too much scandal. 

Sadly, the two remaining Targaryens had succumbed to the horrible influenza last year that had taken so many people with it, the high and low alike. Sansa shivers recalling it and is grateful Winterfell’s people managed to escape it unscathed. The Duke of Dragonstone is an empty seat now and one the king is rumored to be in no hurry to fill if ever. Jon does not care. The estate was greatly in debt anyway and it holds no part of his heart. 

They were married shortly before Christmas in 1912. Jon had tried so very hard not to get her with child during their early intimacies but, young as they were and still learning, she was missing her monthlies by the time Robb escorted her down the aisle. A bit of tongue wagging could be endured. Sansa and Jon were both radiantly happy when their bonny Lyanna was born seven months to the day after their wedding. 

The early days of their marriage had its struggles though. Not between them but between Jon and the world. As strange as it might sound to some (because who would not wish to suddenly find themselves so wealthy?), it was not easy for her sweet husband to find his place in the world after finding his idea of it upended. But Nan, Willem and Gendry along with Sansa and the family helped him keep his chin up and come to terms with it all.

And then the war came and so many things changed for everyone.

The Flower of England covered in mud and stained with the blood of a generation. Some say there is no going back to the way things once were. Maybe that is good, maybe it is bad. Sansa does not know about that but change seems to be in the wind. For better or worse, they will wait and see. 

For now, Winterfell endures thanks in large part to Jon's eagerness to see it maintained in all its glory with his fortune, its people from the servants to the tenant farmers looked after while he and Robb plot where the future may lead them. 

Jon and Robb had gone off to war together with so many of the young men Sansa had grown up knowing. Many of them did not return but the brothers-in-law had become brothers-in-arms and grown closer than she could've ever hoped on battlefields abroad.

Tommen Baratheon is the new Baron of Storm’s End with his father's passing and his older brother’s death from trench foot. 

Loras Tyrell will never live to see the dream of Highgarden fulfilled having died in France. He was awarded the Victoria Cross posthumously though having sacrificed his own life to save the men serving under him. We do not have to live honorably all of our days to achieve some honor in the end. 

His sister however lives in disgrace with her parents after an unwise dalliance on her part with a German count right before the outbreak of the war. There are some who say she was lucky not to be charged with espionage. 

Closer to home, one of the lads under Willem and Desmond the footman were killed in action. Jon’s letters home spoke of how hard he and Robb both took the news. The household itself was in mourning for several months until the return of the living brought some light back again. 

As for those who remained on the home front, the estate had become a convalescent hospital for a time during the war, keeping everyone quite busy. Sansa was doubly busy between caring for wounded soldiers and her daughter. She was unspeakably glad to have her mother, sister and sister-in-law for company along with the good women who serve their family. Even Hill made herself useful. 

But even with her sweet babe nestled beside her at night, those had been dark days, missing Jon and worrying over him in every quiet moment. 

Those days are behind them now though and she hopes it might remain so. At present, her days are filled with far more joys than sorrows. 

“Dinner’s ready, ma’am,” Nan says as Sansa is finishing a letter to Arya. 

The Representation of People Act passed in Parliament last year but only women over thirty with property are allowed to vote. Arya remains in London grimly saying there is still much work to do. Sansa and Jon could not be prouder of their sister. Perhaps only Gendry Waters is prouder. 

“Thank you, Nan. I’ll go and call them in.”

Nan is getting older and said the responsibilities of a house the size of Winterfell were growing too much for her. She came to work at the cottage as soon as Jon and Sansa moved into it five months ago with his return from war. Jon says the Dowager’s Cottage is far grander than the cottage he dreamt of owning someday but he is pleased as punch with it, especially the garden.

Her mother remains at Winterfell. If Robb and his wife are not entirely delighted by it, one would never know it and Lady Stark is a doting grandmother who is more than happy to help her daughter-in-law keep the enormous house in good order. 

Sansa slips down the stairs to the backdoor and listens for the voices of the head gardener of the cottage and his young assistant. He has missed so much time with their little one and he is hungry for every second of time he may have with her now. 

“This one’s a perfect bloom, Lya,” she hears him say and watches as he helps their daughter carefully snips the tulip. “Won’t your mum smile when she sees the bouquet we’ve brought?”

The little girl giggles and nods, gazing at her father with such affection that Sansa wonders how her heart does not melt from it. 

“Close your eyes now, dearest, and see if you smell anything.”

Jon holds the tulip under their daughter’s nose. It twitches adorably and Sansa cannot quite smother her laughter.

“Aw, Mama! You’ve spoilt our surprise now!” Lya laments when her blue eyes flutter open.

Sansa tucks herself against her husband’s side, loving the smell of musk and earth that clings to him as he works, and begs their pardon. “These are the prettiest tulips I've ever seen in March but dinner is ready and Nan is waiting.”

The child skips off with glee, black curls bouncing as she goes, to go find Nan and wash her hands as a familiar face comes ‘round the bend. “Freshly picked this morning in the Glass Garden in case Nan was feeling up to making some cakes or pie, my lady,” Willem says as he holds up a basket of lemons.

Jon congratulates him on the fine lemons and Sansa thanks the old man and invites him in to join them for dinner. He accepts with a tip of his cap and goes inside to see what Nan is up to. 

They do not stand on much ceremony at their cottage. The old world is falling away to an extent. There is staff here besides Nan though. Despite her silliness when she was younger, Jeyne Poole never did betray Sansa’s faith in her over the note she asked her to pass to Jon that night and she happily serves as their maid while Alyn serves as their butler and Jon’s valet…when Jon will allow him to. 

Nan however is a different matter altogether and dines with them most meals. Lya adores her and treats her like a second gran...or a great-gran perhaps. Anyway, Nan is more like family and the lines between upstairs and down are quite blurred in the Snow Household at times. The master of the house has even been threatened with a wooden spoon upon occasion when he shows her too much cheek.

Jon stoops and picks up a handful of soil in their vegetable patch as the pair of them make to follow the others indoors, talking of the crops he means to sow this week. She watches the earth crumble and fall from his hands before he wipes them on his trousers. His hands are far better covered with soil than blood. There are nights she holds him close, kissing his brow and whispering reassurances when the haunted memories are too much for him to face alone. _You are happier as a gardener than a soldier or an officer._

Later that night by their fire when everyone else has gone to bed, Sansa sighs in contentment seeing the lovely tulips in their vase. Jon asks her to play their piano softly and sing him a song before bed as he often does. There’s a light in his eyes when she does and she know this means a good deal to him. It is becoming a nightly habit of theirs. He brings her flowers whenever he can and she sings for him. He tells her that she and Lya are his dreams come true.

“What if there was more to your dreams though?” she asks with a coy smile.

“More?”

“What if there was more than Lya and I in your dream? How would you feel about that, my sweet Jon?”

She tries not to laugh at the way his expression changes from confusion to questioning to delighted once she nods in acknowledgement to his unspoken question.

“You’ve been sowing seeds in more than just our garden again, Jon Snow,” she teases.

He chuckles before cupping her face tenderly and asking, “When?” 

“In late autumn, my love.”

He rises from the parlor settee and pulls her to her feet from the piano forcing her to stifle a shriek when he sweeps her into his strong arms and carries her up to their bedroom. He is a very passionate gardener and Sansa is perfectly delighted by that.

"You are my dream that came true," he tells her softly again when he holds her close later on with the covers tucked around them, still dropping petal soft kisses along her shoulders with their bodies dotted with dew.

"And you are mine," she replies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've known for a while that I wanted Sansa to be the voice of the epilogue but I hope that wasn't jarring switching POVs at the end. Historians have said that a lot of the generation that lived through WWI tended to look back on the Edwardian Era with fondness as a golden time of sorts and I tried to convey that there with some of Sansa's thoughts about the changing world they found themselves in post-war. Anyway, this is an AU I might enjoy revisiting some day but for now, this is it. 
> 
> Having a good hunk of this finished before I posted it helped me push through to the end but I'll be returning to my 3 current WIPs with hopes of having them completed before the new year (hopefully sooner). I'll be sharing some new stuff in October as well which I hope some of you will enjoy.
> 
> Much thanks for reading! Your kudos and sweet comments are so appreciated :)


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